


Pocket Pass

by auselysium



Series: Pocket Pass [1]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, College AU, M/M, Modern Era, eventual angst, eventual hurt/comfort, oliver plays football
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-05-19 10:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 100,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14872421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auselysium/pseuds/auselysium
Summary: Closeted Northwestern University starting quarterback Oliver Sugarman hooks up with Elio Perlman on his last night on a team trip to Rome, thanks to Grindr.What they both think will be a one night stand turns complicated when Elio shows up on campus for the fall semester and in Oliver's Plato seminar.Modern College AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**_August 14, 2018_ **

**_Rome, Italy_ **

So it turns out, Grindr works in Italy too.  This little bit of information would have made the last few weeks far more interesting for Oliver.

 He feels kind of like a stupid, American idiot to not have checked before but to be fair, it’s not like he’s actually ever used the app for its intended purpose. He’s downloaded and uninstalled that app more times than he can count as leaving it on his phone for any extended period has always felt like too much of a liability.  What if his girlfriend or one of his buddies accidentally scrolled through his phone and stopped to ask why he, Oliver Sugarman, starting quarterback for Northwestern University and NFL hopeful, had a Grindr profile?

He can't use it while he's on campus.  His name and his face are far too recognizable for any anonymous, same-sex hookup there.  Same goes for road games. All it would take would be one guy who even remotely cares about what their school’s football team is up to that Saturday to make one vague Tweet or post even the blurriest pic to Instagram for his career - or the career he hopes to have when he graduates in the spring - to be over.

So tonight, really and truly might be Oliver’s one chance to give it a try.  

Two and half weeks ago, Oliver and the rest of the Northwestern University football team had arrived on campus several weeks ahead of the rest of the student body, bags packed and passports in hand, ready for 2 weeks in Italy.  

They had sat together in the team meeting room, a high tech room built the year before Oliver was recruited to NU, equipped for detailed film study and located in the practice facility next to the stadium.  It had been so early in the morning the Chicago skyline, visible from campus, had still glittered with nightlife.

They had listened to a long lecture from the Athletic Director about rules and policies for the trip while suppressing yawns.  He'd gone on for longer than necessary about how they would  be representing their team _and_ their University while overseas.  He’d encouraged them to have fun, enjoy the experience but also remember to be smart, that they were going for a cultural experience, not to just drink wine and eat pasta.  

The general gist?  Don’t be fuck ups and make his job harder.

And for the most part, the Wildcats have been on their best behavior.  2 weeks of walking tours through the Colosseum, the Pantheon and the Forum, a private visit to the Sistine Chapel, a bus trip to see Pompeii and the largest olive tree in Europe, and a Q&A with the professional players of A.S Roma, one of the cities football (in the European sense) teams.

“So, is being here everything you’d dreamed it would be?”  Coach had asked Oliver about a week into the trip as they’d strolled down _Via Appia_ , their tour guide describing the inhabitants of the tombs as they passed.  He’d turned to see tears in the eyes of the man who’d come to feel like a second father. That’s when it hit Oliver that this trip had been tailor made for his interests.  

There are clearly perks to being a hopeful Heisman Trophy Winner and potential number one draft pick.  He’d hugged Coach, hard.

Interspersed with all the sightseeing had, of course, been the practices in the Stadio Olympico.  Speed drills and passing routes under the unrelenting Roman sun that felt infinitely hotter than the one they’d left behind in northern Illinois.  

Tomorrow they’ll return home to more practices, the start of the semester and the season.  As it’s Oliver’s senior year, this is his final chance to prove his worth to scouts and potential teams.  So this final night in Rome feels like the last night before the rest of his life begins. There is an oppressiveness to the air that has nothing to do with the dusty heat.

Which is why, when the coach had announced after the final team meal together that there would be no curfew enforced tonight, as reward for their good behavior and hard work, Oliver had whooped and hollered like the rest of his team but for very different reasons.  

For them, it meant a night out, clubs, alcohol, girls.  Such revelry as to honor Baccus himself.

For Oliver, it was an instant Siren’s song to the phone in his pocket, the app he knows will download in seconds and open up a world of opportunity.  This single night, half way across the globe, Oliver has a chance to indulge in what is impossible anywhere and everywhere else. He can be a nameless, faceless nobody one last time.  Himself in a way he hasn’t in far too long.

He clambers down the cobblestone streets and up the narrow stairway to the Airbnb where he and the other seniors have been staying while the rest of the team and coaching staff are holed up at a hotel down the road.  

The senior crew are already in high spirits. Their laughter echos against the old stone buildings.  

Once inside, they turn on a pre-gaming Spotify playlist and pull out the remaining alcohol they have left to consume.  

“Can’t take it with us,” Ruiz, one of his offensive linemen, says with a dangerous glint in his eye.  He got half a bottle of tequila in one hand and an almost kicked bottle of Goldschlager in the other.

They start collecting cups and shot glasses, pouring drinks both strong and stomach churning, all the while making plans to Uber to _il Campo d’Fiori_ later to consume even more alcohol once this stash is tapped.  

Oliver watches them for a moment, feeling completely at home and completely alone all at once.  More than the guys he started school with, more than his teammates, more than his best friends and sometimes roomates, these are Oliver’s brothers.  He looks and sees the five men who will be the groomsmen at his wedding. The guys he knows he’ll still call up on the weekends when they’ve all suffered too many concussions and their knees have blown out too many times after a few good years in the NFL to talk about the glory days as their own kids play in the yard.

Just so long as they never find out about the app that started syncing the moment his phone had connected with the apartment’s WiFi that will help him find some anonymous dick to suck tonight.

As the drinking begins in earnest, Oliver slips unnoticed into his bedroom, opens the app and signs in.  

His profile picture is old, a left over from fall his sophomore year.  He’d suffered a high ankle sprain early in the season and had to sit out for two weeks.  He hadn’t handled being benched well. It’s a shot of just his torso, angled away from the camera, just a hint of hip bone amongst the well defined muscles.  Kinda artsy. It gets the point across and the job done.

He sits on the edge of his bed and begins scrolling through the matrix of pictures.  Italian men who all tend to be some variation of dark hair, olive skin, bare-chested and brazen.  An occasional tourist filters into the mix, white-bread American in a vibrant tank top or a passing Asian man, flipping a peace sign with shades on.

“24!  What the fuck you doing in there?”  A voice from the other room calls to him, using the number he wears on the back of his jersey as a nickname.  It’s Rick, their place kicker.

“You know what he’s doing,” another voice, probably Pete Jackson, defensive end, mumbles just loud enough for Oliver to hear.

A chorus of overly girly “Ooos” and kissy sounds erupts.  Sometimes they are so immature, but Oliver smiles affectionately anyway.

“I’m just going to facetime Chiara,” Oliver shouts back even as he continues to look through pictures of boys.  

“Told you,” Jackson retorts.

“That girl has him so whipped…” Ruiz chimes in.

A final voice, louder and more authoritative than all the rest pipes up. “Don’t be acting all jealous cause Ollie’s got a hot girl and all you got is your right hand.”

There are further snickers as Oliver gets up, phone still in his hand and slams the door to his room shut but not before offering an overly courteous,  “Thank you, Des,” and giving the rest of them the a sweeping middle finger.

Des: last name Desarmes, first name Stanley (which is obviously why he goes by Des), is Oliver’s favorite receiver and best friend since they were 14.  As the only black kid and only Jewish kid, respectively in their grade they had bonded fast over their love of football and at being the “different” ones after Des’ family moved to Oliver’s very small, very WASPY, New England town directly from Haiti where he’d been born.  They’d played football together all through high school together, even been recruited to NU together. But even Des wouldn’t accept this other inherent thing that separates Oliver from all the rest.

After a few more minutes of looking through profile pictures, Oliver is beginning to wonder if Italian men really just aren’t his type until a picture appears that nearly makes him hard right then and there.

Oliver taps on his profile and favorites him immediately.

It’s a black and white picture, lending a timeless appeal.  The subject gestures towards something off camera with a long finger but the frame holds him completely.  His body is slight under the black tee-shirt he wears, so different from the many muscle bound men he’d scrolled past before.  But it is this boy’s face - his eyes rimmed with dark lashes, lips pouted and beckoning, cheekbones that look like they have been chiseled out of Carra marble, sculpted to perfection by some ancient great under a halo of windswept curls - that Oliver likes the most.

Oliver reads his profile, his thumb still hovering at the ready over the chat icon.  It lists his name (Elio, followed by Italian, French and American flag emojis), his measurements (impressive).  His “looking for” status is set to “right now” which 1000% works for him. Then, instead of a link to a facebook or IG account, there is a quote.  It’s uncredited but Oliver recognizes it nearly immediately.

 _I_ _grabbed a pile of dust, and holding it up, foolishly asked for as many_ _birthdays as the grains of dust, I forgot to ask that they be years of youth._

Oliver laughs gently through his nose.  How could someone be so pretentious as to quote Ovid on a hookup app?  And why would this Elio choose a quote that hints of old age and wishes for immortality when he barely even looks legal?  Suddenly feeling pervy, Oliver checks. His profile claims he’s 20.

Problem is, Oliver can’t look away.  This boy is beautiful. He imagines what it would be like to be touch to that perfect skin.  To kiss it. How would he smell? Of nicotine and designer cologne, perhaps? Would he fight against Oliver’s strength as he held those fine wrists over his head and back against the mattress or submit to it?

He opens a chat window.  

 _O.S.:_ _Nice Ovid quote._

That’s a pathetic opener but it’s been so long since he’s had to flirt via text, with a total stranger.  Just then, as he considers other possible, more sexy pick up lines, there is a knock on the door. He hits send without a chance for revision and immediately closes the app.  

Des opens the door.

“Everything cool?”

Oliver nods, swallowing shallowly. “Course.  Chiara’s just being...well, you know how she gets.” He gestures vaguely at the black screen then slips his phone in his pocket.  

“It’s been a long summer, man.  She’s probably just missing you.”

“You’re probably right, yeah.”

Des smiles kindly at him, drooping slightly against the door frame.  If the other guys will be his groomsmen, Des will be his best man.

Des’ smile morphs, becoming more toothy and jovial.  It’s the same smile Des smiles every time he scores a touchdown from a pass perfectly thrown by Oliver.  A smile so wide it makes the rich-toned skin by his eyes wrinkle and his ears move against his closely shorn scalp.  

It’s a gorgeous smile on a gorgeous guy that Oliver adores, but he’s never thought of Des “that way”.  Not even once. Not even when Oliver was still a questioning teenager and falling for his best friend would have been way too easy.  

“Seriously though,” Des says, gesturing over his shoulder.  “If you don’t hurry up we’re all going to be so much drunker than you, you’ll just have to carry us to the club.”  

Oliver thinks for a moment of the boy with the effortless curls and angelic face.  He wishes that he could find out what those eyes look like up close and in color, watch as a blush races over those pristine cheek bones as Oliver palms him through his jeans.  But he realizes the chances of that happening are slim and here is his best friend, offering a night to remember.

He slaps his thighs over his jeans.

“Pour me in.”

*

Oliver has always been shy around strangers.  If comes off as humble and down-to-earth in pre-game interviews and attractive sideline reporters they send his way during half-time eat it up.  But with his friends he is loose and outgoing, charming, letting his leadership and ego spill off the field and into the life of the party. Once he’s back on campus he knows nights like this - full of alcohol and whatever comes after - are strictly off limits, so he downs the line of shots his buddies have set up for him: Stoli and Jager and coconut rum and tequila.  It’s a revolting mix, but he barely registers the disparate tastes from one to the next.

The crew cheers as Oliver slams the final glass down, crowing triumphantly with his fists in the air.  

“Another round?” Des asks.

“Why the fuck not?”  Oliver says just as his phone buzzes in his pocket.  He pulls it out to see a new message waiting in yellow backed text.

_Elio: Grazie. Nice abs, I guess, since that’s all you’re sharing._

_Elio: 3 Vicolo della Frusta #4 in 15 mins if you’re up for it.  I’ll need_ _to buzz you up._

All thoughts of more drinking with the boys quickly evaporates.  The alcohol hits him in a sudden rush along with the anticipation.  His thumbs move quickly over his glowing screen.

_O.S.: On my way_

Oliver presses the send button.  

 _15 minutes._  That gives him just enough time to walk to the nearly two miles to the address Elio sent him.  He’ll have to download directions before he goes since he’s been on airplane mode the whole time he’s been here.   _I wish I had time for a quick shower._ . _.at least these are decent jeans_.  

His mind is racing.  He’s pretty sure he’s never wanted anything this much.  It’s just been so long.

He hides the Google map he’s already pulled up on his screen against his abdomen as Des comes over with two Jager shots for them to do together, taking no notice of Oliver’s erratic behavior.

“To our last year and first place.”  He says loftily, as he extends the small glass in Oliver direction.  

“You know, I’m think actually going to head out for a bit.”  

“Wait...what?  But you...”

“I’ve been meaning to get some pictures of the Colosseum at night. And well, last chance and all.”

He tries to laugh but it’s so fake that sounds more like a whine.

Oliver starts backing towards the door as Jackson shouts, “You are such a nerd, Sugarman!” over the music from across the room.  His words are slurred but affectionate.

“I’m just not really feeling the club scene tonight,” Oliver says.

“I’ll come with.  Just let me get my shoes,” Des offers.  He downs both shots he still has in his hands, making a gagging sound at the back of his mouth when they don’t go down as smooth as he’d hoped.  He braces himself on Oliver’s biceps with both hands as his head spins. He’s going to be a disaster of the flight tomorrow.

“I don’t think the other tourists looking for a romantic Roman backdrop would appreciate the onslaught of drunk college guys.”

“But you’re a drunk college guy,” Des attempts to rationalize.

“Not as drunk as you,” Oliver teases.  “Besides, I’ll be wholly less offensive on my own and I can charm them with my knowledge about how emperor Vespasian built the Colosseum out of money he gained from the Jewish-Roman war.”

Des’ eyes glaze over.  “Jackson’s right. You are a fucking nerd.”  Oliver lets go of Des, making sure he remains upright when he does.  “Alright, fine. Leave me with these losers as wingmen.”

“Fuck off, _Stanely_.”  A bottle cap breezes past Des’ ear and Rick howls with laughter.  

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Des says quickly right before running across the room to tackle the guilty Rick with a shout.

Oliver just laughs as he slips out the door.  “Don’t think you need to worry about that.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely a little homage to their first kiss in the movie. :) And a few little book nods.
> 
> Also, I'm thrilled so many people are on board with this wacky idea!! Get ready to settle in for a long one, folks.

The streets in this part of the city are mostly quiet by this time of night aside from the occasional grumble of a diesel taxi cab or the bark of a dog.  The late summer heat lingers long into the night, so much so that Oliver’s skin prickles from the humidity.

He walks with a purpose, the undercurrent of anticipation keeping his pace steady as he checks the map on his phone and makes another turn.  

It’s not until he presses the large black button next to a faded placard with only a hand written _#4_ on it, a broken buzz sounding from the doorway, that the urgency in Oliver’s belly turns to butterflies.  

Oliver has always known himself.  Even from a young age he was able to articulate feelings and express them with a self-awareness well beyond his years.  Oliver is who is he is. Simple as that. He hates mushrooms. He can’t stand studying in the erratic noise of a coffee shop, always preferring the quiet of a library or his room.  He knows that if something needs to be done, it’s better if he just do it right then and there and not put it off, because otherwise, he’ll just be distracted and worried about it until it’s over.  He will always puke if he gets drunk and then smokes a cigarette.

The revelation about his sexuality came to him with a similar amount of recognition.

There was never much in the way of denial.  Just a few months of wonder towards the start of high school where his eyes had flited from person to person, boy to girl then back to the boy and he’d asked himself, _Could I be?_  It hadn’t been long before the words, “I’m gay,” were heard first, fully formed and without fear in his head, and then repeated aloud in front of his bathroom mirror on a Saturday morning when he’d known his parents were both out of the house.  He’d cried that morning because it had felt so true, not because he’d hated himself for it.

He’d looked straight into his blue-eyed reflection, his hair still dripping down the back of his neck from his shower, and come out to himself.  That is the only outting he’s ever had.

By that time, his path towards elite football, at least at the college level if not beyond, was quite clear.  As was the simple fact that these two truths - 1st team All-state quarterback and homosexual male - could not exist concurrently.

What has followed are years of pretending.  He’d started dating Chiara junior year of high school and never looked back, resigning himself to living one life on the outside, while knowing full well he is something completely different on the inside.  To achieve what he has been able to on the gridiron, he is willing to steal moments of fleeting wholeness. But that means months and months can pass between chances where wanting men and wanting to play football don’t feel mutually exclusive in Oliver’s life.

“Pronto.”

The sound of Elio’s voice through the intercom brings him back to the present moment.  It’s lazy, almost most bored. The effortlessly rolled “r”. The percussive stop to the “o” at the back of his throat.

The infrequency of these encounters doesn’t give Oliver much time to practice his game.  His pathetic pick-up line on Grindr had been proof of that.

“Si, s’cuzi.”  He quickly realizes his minimal Italian is not going to get him very far and besides, Elio had texted him in English.  “Yeah,...It’s umm…It’s me?”

Oliver grimaces at his stuttering and Elio snorts through the intercom.

“2nd floor, last door on the right.”

The lock on the front door clicks open and Oliver steps into the fluorescent lit foyer, feeling like he’s stepping into the unknown.  Which maybe isn't so far off. He’s totally unfamiliar with the routine of random hookups. Each time Oliver is feeling brave, desperate or reckless enough to act on his wants it feels like a new beginning.  Like his first time.

It’s been nearly six months since Oliver has been with a man.  It was a few months after the season had ended. Northwestern had lost their bowl game that January and he was still deciding whether he should declare for the draft or stay in school.  His head had been all over the place.

He’d driven to Kalamazoo, Michigan, an hour and half drive that becomes two and a half with the time change, just to get away from anyone who might know his face.  He’d ended up at a gay bar near the Western Michigan University campus but had gone home that night with a man in his early 30’s. A local, not a student, who worked as a CPA and said he’d never watched sports in his life.

It’s not that he seeks out guys who aren’t interested in sports.  But it certainly helps.

The hallway on the 2nd floor is narrow, the lights dim.  The faded carpet is ornate and red-hued, giving the an ominous feel, as he steps off the elevator, like something from the set of The Shining.

He can hear music playing softly from behind the door of Elio’s.  He breathes the name softly 3 times ( _Elio, Elio, Elio_ ), as if to rehearse how it will sound later on.  

He knocks and waits, trying not to fidget.

Then suddenly Elio is there, one hand braced on the frame, the other on far edge of the open door.   With his arms spread wide, his body is on full display, shirtless, his grey sweats so low over his narrow hips that Oliver can see the band of his dark blue boxer-briefs.  

Oliver is immediately struck by how slender he is.  In the minimal light of the hallway, the hollows spaces between his ribs are all the more accentuated, coming to meet under a flat expanse of his hairless chest.  But there is strength too, defined muscles over his shoulders and arms that fill out his angular frame, like a runner or a diver. Elio is delicate and razor-thin but undeniably male.  There is nothing soft about him, aside from the buoyant curls framing his face. Oliver wants to touch each one.

Meanwhile, those eyes that had been so quick to catch Oliver’s attention in his profile picture, work their way slowly over Oliver’s body, seeming to scan every dip and curve of him.  Oliver’s heart beats powerfully in his chest as Elio’s eyes finally find his. And just as he’d expected, they are even more stunning in person - golden-green and soulful. He does everything he can to hold Elio’s immodest gaze.     

Elio’s mouth twists into a small smile, clearly pleased with what he sees before him.  He makes an amused noise at the back of his throat before stepping out of the way.

“Come on in.”

*

Elio’s apartment is small, little more than a studio really, and not an especially nice one.  The wooden floor and framing around the windows is all dark, its varnish beginning to wear away after years of short-term tenants.  The light, low and almost hazy, comes from a few shaded floor lamps and the open french doors that open out to a small balcony and city beyond.  

The furniture is minimal - two stools opposite the counter of a small kitchenette which consists of little more than a half-sized fridge, a sink and a microwave.  Books in French, some handwritten sheet music and parts of a folded-up newspaper (also In French) litter the a desk in the corner. There is a new iMac open too, but its screen is blank and a guitar is propped by the neck against the side.  In the opposite corner there is a mattress on the floor, it’s sheets ill-fitting carelessly tucked in at the corners. There are several empty, unwashed coffee cups on the floor nearby.

There is a pungent, soapy smell coming from the bathroom - a mix of body wash and shaving foam.  The music Oliver had heard in the hallway, turned low and perfectly atmospheric, plays through a set of fancy bluetooth speakers.  There are hints of extravagance, here. Wealth even.

Elio moves into the kitchen area as Oliver goes to peer out onto the balcony.  An ashtray, empty wine bottle and a stunning view.

“Glad to see there is a face attached to that body you’re showing off on your profile,” Elio starts, drawing Oliver back inside.  He presses his lips together, prettily. “They make for an impressive combination.”

Oliver feels himself blush, the nervous energy in his belly swirling and reacting to Elio’s praise.

“You don’t...recognize me, do you?”

Elio pulls his head back as if to give himself more space to consider Oliver. “Should I?”

“No, I - I’d be surprised if you did.”  Nevertheless, Oliver feels himself turning away.  

“You want a drink,...?”  Elio trails off. “I never did catch your name.”

Elio waits for Oliver’s answer, hands spread on the counter.  He clearly has no issues showing off his body. Oliver is used to preening.  Locker rooms full of teammates whose bodies are as muscled and strong as his own.  Elio emanates a very different kind of power, cunning and quixotic but equally confident.  

“Sure.  And it’s Oliver.”

Maybe it’s the shots he’d done before he’d left.  Maybe it’s the foreign setting. Maybe it’s because Elio seems truly to have no idea who he is but he goes for it and gives him his real name.   _Won’t that be something_ , he thinks.   _Actually being me._    

He watches as Elio nods and turns.  His knees crack as he squats down, getting two Peroni out from the fridge.  

“American, I assume?”  He asks as he turns back, placing them on the counter.  Every movement he makes is effortless, weightless. He searches through a drawer for a bottle opener, cracking off the lid with an elegant arc of his wrist.  

Oliver nods as he takes the offered beer.  “Just a tourist. I’ve been here for two weeks but I head back tomorrow.”  The icy bottle immediately forms condensation under his fingers. Why does no one in Italy have air conditioning?

“And you’re sharing your last night with me, huh?  I’m honored.” There’s a curious edge to Elio’s voice, like he’s been figuring Oliver out from the moment he walked in the door has him just about sussed.  Elio takes a long drink of his own beer, his head tilted back. Oliver watches him swallow. “So, how have you liked the fatherland then?”

“Fatherland?  You’re not American too?”  Elio shakes his head slowly, his eyebrows arching softly upwards like he can’t quite believe Oliver would ask him such a preposterous question.  “It’s just, you don’t have an accent.”

“American father, French mother.  I grew up in Milan though, spent summers and holidays in a little town on the coast you would have never heard of.  It’s complicated.” He waves his beer bottle in front of his face, brushing the information away as if it’s unimportant too.

“You studying here this summer?”

Elio turns his face away, tucking it against his shoulder to hide the myriad of emotions that pass across it for a second, ending with a sardonic smile.  When he turns back, his face is smoothed once again.

“You could say I’m regrouping.”

Then with no preamble and as if he is very much over the chit chat, Elio moves around the counter.  He spins Oliver on his stool, forcing his his legs apart with the press of his palms to the inside of Oliver’s knees and steps into the space he’s made between Oliver’s thighs.  It’s all so suave, so proficient. Oliver feels himself flush.

Elio is so close now.  Close enough that Oliver can see the smattering of freckles on his cheekbones and nose, physical proof of summertime on his ivory skin.

Close enough that no other part of Elio’s body has to move for him to be able to turn his wrist and cup Oliver’s cock in the palm of his hand.

Oliver’s hips roll into the touch, unbidden.

“Easy there,” Elio smirks.

Oliver is half hard already and has been since he got here.  Just the prospect of touching and being touched had been enough but now Elio moves in closer, mapping Oliver’s full length under his jeans with his long fingers.  He twists the heel of his palm against the head and presses.

A jolt of every wanton, lustful desire courses through him.  Oliver feels himself slacken into Elio’s touch, glorious heat blooming under his skin.  It would be over embarrassingly quick if he lets this stranger continue, coming in his pants like some teenaged boy.  

Oliver jumps off the stool, running his hands through his hair then turning away to adjust himself in his jeans.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly as he turns back to see Elio’s look of annoyance.  “That felt...too good.”

“Well, that is kind of the point of this little get together, isn’t it?” Elio asks, flatly.  

“Yeah, yeah course.” Oliver realizes how unconvinced he sounds.

Elio sighs heavily, his upper body going slack to encompass the frustration.  “Look you’re hot as fuck, and I’m into this, but, I mean...” He squeezes his nose between his eyes then drops his hand dramatically to his hip.  “You have done this before right?”

“No.  I mean - yes.  Sort of.”

Elio waits.  “Well, which is it?”

“Not through the app, but with guys, yeah, of course.”

“Good,” he says and it’s totally condescending, like how you might congratulate a child.  Oliver doesn’t have time to decide if he should be offended when Elio speaks again. “Cause I can handle a guy with a girl back home but I don’t think I have it in me to deal with a virgin tonight.”

“Well, I’m not,” Oliver asserts, finally finding some footing though he can’t help but wonder if he’s answered with so much conviction that is starts to ring false.  He adjusts his tone. “It’s just been a long time.”

“So what.  We all go through droughts,” Elio says and Oliver thinks, _If only you knew_.  

Elio begins walking towards Oliver, his feet crossing one in front of the other like a model on a catwalk.  He’s barefoot, an observation that only compounds his appeal.

“This is meant to be fun, yes?”  Elio speaks slowly. Oliver swallows.  “We can still have fun can’t we, Oliver?”

“Yes.”  He hates the desperation that one word holds.  But Elio grins.

He touches Oliver again.  They both watch the path of Elio’s hand, gentle, almost ghosting over the soft jersey that covers Oliver’s rounded shoulder, moving to the firm musculature of his forearm then ending at the fluttering pulse at his wrist.  

It’s safe, rated PG.  It still makes Oliver burn.

“Do you kiss?”  Elio whispers, his head tilted prettily, eyes lingering on where he’s slid Oliver’s fingers between his.

Oliver’s eyes flit to Elio’s parted lips, pink and shapely.  He can see the shape of his tongue just past his teeth. He wants nothing more than to feel that bit of muscle slip into his mouth.

“Definitely.”  

Elio settles his hands on the small of Oliver’s back and takes another step closer.  Oliver closes his eyes and waits, breath shallow from his open mouth, for the feel of Elio’s mouth against his.  A gentle kiss perhaps, close lipped and testing. Or maybe it would be rough, all in and commanding, either will do just fine.

Instead he feels Elio’s breath playing across his mouth, teasing him out, drawing Oliver closer.  He lifts his chin hoping to make contact but still finds nothing but air.

Then, just when he’s about to give up on Elio’s baiting and open his eyes, there is the feather flick of Elio’s tongue, slow and intentional, licking a line from the fullest part of bottom lip to the top.

And only then does Elio kiss him.  When Oliver feels his most helpless, liquefied, putty in his hands.  Their mouths slot together like dovetail joints, something handcrafted and meant to last.  He feels the sweep of Elio’s tongue in his mouth and in his veins, his gut, his cock, down through his knees then back again.  

All his nerves vaporize on the spot; his instincts and urges take over.  He cups Elio’s ass, small like the rest of him but perfectly round and firm, and erases what minimal space is left between them.  Elio inhales sharply through his nose, lips still on him, unprepared for Oliver’s show of strength.

“Bed,” Elio mouths and Oliver agrees.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Elio.

A breeze has picked up in the last hour.  It is just enough to take the torpid edge off the night and draw the smoke of Elio’s cliche, post-coital cigarette skyward.

He’ll miss this city and her ancient bones when he leaves in only a weeks’ time.  New country, new city, new school. It’s as daunting as it is liberating.

Inside through the sheer blinds that shift ever so slightly with the wind, Elio can make out the shape of Oliver still on his bed.  He’s still naked, one knee splayed to the side as he savors the let down.

Every inch of him is perfection: muscled chest and arms, abs that Elio didn’t realize were possible without photoshop, defined legs that stretch out from jutting hip bones that seem to go on for days.  His cock is gorgeous too, long and heavy when hard, but equally pretty as it is now, resting soft against the pale skin of his upper thigh. His face is rugged, Hollywood handsome with pale brown hair cut short on the sides but soft across his brow.  And those stunning baby blues, full of longing.

Oliver is the type of guy who would be so easy to stereotype and brush off as some self-centered, shallow, muscle queen.  But Oliver is nothing like Elio had expected him to be.

He thought he could read the signs on Oliver’s Grindr profile - no first name, no picture of his face.  This guy was clearly closeted, probably with a girlfriend.

Elio had assumed that Oliver would come to his place, all business and shame, bend him over whatever surface was closest, fuck him hard with a condom (or not) and then be done with him.  Barely any words exchanged, probably not even a kiss, definitely never giving him his first name.

It wouldn’t be the first time some self-loathing man had used Elio for a quick fix.  He’s petite, almost feminine. He fills a certain kink for a certain type of guy. If Oliver really hated himself as much as Elio assumed he did, he could just close his eyes and pretend.  

What did it say about Elio’s current mindset that he would have been totally fine with it if that was all Oliver was offering?

But from his first stuttered attempt at Italian over the intercom, Elio’s expectations had altered only to be further confirmed when Oliver had stated, “I don’t wanna fuck,” stilling Elio’s hand on his fly.    

Elio had sat back on his knees, bracketing Oliver’s thighs.  Oliver, already shirtless, had been a pretty picture on his sheets.  Elio had caught his breath, tried to let the words process.

“You...don’t?”

Oliver had shook his head tightly.  “Everything else is ok just…”

Elio, in the heat of the moment, had simply rolled his eyes, and undid Oliver’s belt.  “Whatever.” Elio he’d kissed Oliver’s navel as he’d yanked his jeans, boxers and all, over Oliver’s hips.  “Hands and mouths and the power of friction it is, then.”

Oliver had grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him with something that felt akin to gratitude.  

It makes Elio wonder what Oliver’s not getting at home.  Why this guy who could have a different lover in his bed every night or a devoted boyfriend if he wanted, seems so very alone.

Eventually, both naked, their shallow pants falling in and out of sync, Elio had found Oliver’s cock with his mouth, tasting the desire already leaking out at the tip, the rigid heat of his silken shaft.  He’s good at that particular act and the noises Oliver had made had been both guttural and plaintive, noises Elio couldn’t help but match.

“I’m close,” Oliver had warned, polite and wonderful.  Elio had pulled off, suddenly missing the gentle tug of Oliver’s fingers in his hair.  He’d aligned their bodies, chest to chest, pelvis to pelvis, cock to cock. He’d taken them both in his hand, his fingers long enough to encircle them both easily and pulled.  Oliver had come almost instantly, hissing through his teeth, head arching back into the pillows. Elio had used the resulting mess on his hand to lubricate his own climax, jacking them both off right through to the end.

“Fuck,” Oliver had cursed like Elio had just fucked him into the mattress for hours, not just given him a stellar but brief blow job.

“Guess it really has been a while, huh bud?” Elio had teased, slapping Oliver’s flank before quickly getting off the bed to clean up and find his cigarettes.

For as easy as it had been to tease Oliver, the truth is it has been for a while for Elio as well.  

He’s spent the duration of his Roman summer bringing members of the opposite sex to his bed, playing at falling in love with them while they strolled through the dusty streets, kissing with their arms around each other late into the the night, then coming home and making love until the sun rose.  

Elio had been romance personified, gifting them everything they thought they wanted.  After a few weeks or when big words started getting mentioned or simply when he’d started to get bored, Elio would dump them with little to no afterthought , moving on to whomever caught his eye next.

It wasn’t like breaking their hearts felt good necessarily.  He’s not a sociopath, after all. But it felt needed. Like a catharsis.  Like he was finally getting the return on a favor he was owed.

So Oliver had been his first venture with a man back in his bed in at least four months.  And he has to admit, it had not disappointed, even for its PG-13 rating.

He’s missed being with men. The parity of it all.  Even when body size or experience levels are uneven, he loves the sameness of their anatomy, the way their sounds match, how  they get off in the same simple way.

Elio examines the remains of his final cigarette of the day.   _ Only 6 _ , he notes to himself.  That feels like progress.  He extinguishes the burning end against the iron railing of his balcony and goes back inside.  

Oliver sits immediately, reaching for any article of clothing of his to cover himself, muttering a quick “Sorry. I’ll...get out of your way.”

“No.  Feel free to lounge across my bed in a state of total undress as long as you like.  I’m not complaining.”

Elio breezes past, though he’d rather stop and stare. Why does he feel like there is still unfinished business for them?  He goes over to the fridge and grabs himself another drink.

“You need anything?  Water? Another beer?”  

“I’m ok,” Oliver replies.  He sits on the edge of the mattress with his boxers back on, his legs outstretched and hand clasped between his thighs.  He hangs his head with what Elio hopes is just bashfulness and not shame.  Elio comes back to the bed and feels every inch of his six foot stature as he looks down at the top of Oliver’s head.  He threads his fingers through Oliver’s closely trimmed hair, enjoying the spiky feel at the nape shifting to longer locks towards the crown.  

If this were another night, with another lover, he’d drop the waistband of his sweat pants and press their face against his groin, insist on his cock in their mouth.  Instead, he just scratches his nails against Oliver’s scalp with both hands, eliciting a groan from him which is just as filthy as any Oliver had made with his dick in Elio’s mouth.  

“Just ok, huh?” Elio murmurs.  

Oliver lifts his head, eyes swimming, as he looks up.   He blushes and Elio finds himself thinking the word,  _ Adorable _ .

“Maybe a little better than ok.”  

Elio shoves Oliver’s shoulder so he falls back against the mattress, then catapults himself nimbly over Oliver’s body so he can lay next to him on the interior edge of the bed, closest to the wall.  Oliver turns his head on the pillow to look at Elio, his hands on his belly.

There is something overly comfortable about this setup for two people who met less than an hour ago.  

Elio banks on the ready-made ease and begins to trace the bulge of Oliver’s bicep with the tip of his pointer finger.  He covers the curve of his tricep, across his shoulder and over his collar bone. He palms the entirety of Oliver’s pec muscle, feeling the muscle twitch and flex under his fingers.  Oliver flashes him a wicked grin, as if to ask,  _ You like that?   _ Elio squeezes back, then in a flash has his thumb and forefinger around his nipple to give it a twist that verges on too hard, as if to answer,  _ Of course I like. _

Something flares in Oliver’s eyes, a bit of bravery perhaps, and Elio’s breath catches.  

“So what do you do with all of these?”  he asks, trying to sound casual when really all he wants to do is climb all over Oliver and cover those perfect muscles with love bites that will last for a week.

“I play football.”

Elio snaps back into his head, considering the typical Italian football the player.  He’s certainly not the only boy to have given the members of  _ Gli Azzuri _ , the Italian national football team, and their lithe athleticism a nice long look.  They share nothing with Oliver’s muscle bound physique.

“ _ American _ football,” Oliver clarifies as if reading Elio’s inability to connect A to B on his face.   

Elio mouths a silent “Ahh,” and props his head up with his hand.  “Running around all day with boys in tights, smacking their asses for a job well done.  What a convenient way to hide in plain sight.”

Oliver searches Elio’s face.  “Am I really that obvious?”

“Well, we did just ejaculate all over each other.”

That rosy blush again.  

“But the girlfriend comment from before...”

“When you’ve been around the block as much as me…”  The genuine worry on Oliver’s face stops him. He restarts, not unkindly.  “You figure out how to read the signs for self protection purposes.”  _ Or self destructive as the case may be, _ he thinks.  Returning to Oliver’s question he says, “I don’t think anyone who didn’t have reason to know would be able to figure you out.  Certainly not just by looking at you.”

Oliver considers Elio’s comment seriously.  It seems to soothe him.

“I know it’s ridiculous,” Oliver says.  “It’s 2018, it shouldn’t matter anymore.  But in my sport, at my level and where I hope to be when I graduate this year, gay athletes just don’t exist. I mean, we  _ do _ , obviously.” He gestures at himself, with a crooked smile.  “But just not openly.”

Elio remembers how big of a deal it had been when an English rugby player came out last year.  It had been all over the papers in Paris. Add to it the weird puritanical, American squeamishness when it comes to human sexuality and their idolization of ‘manly men’ and Elio can only imagine how homophobic Oliver’s sports-centered world must be.

“There isn’t like a secret society for gay sporty types who get together to screw each other and then talk about, I don’t know... the best jockstrap brands afterwards?”  

Oliver laughs.  It’s a real, genuine one this time, free from any self-restraint.  It’s paired with a real, genuine grin and Elio finds himself thinking that word,  _ Adorable _ , again.  

“Well, if there is, I haven’t been asked to join.”

“Well, then they’re missing out,” Elio retorts quickly.  “Maybe you should just start one of your own?”

“Maybe I should,”  Oliver says with amused determination.

They lay still for a moment as their laughs fade into companionable silence.

“Where do you go to school?”  Elio asks.

Oliver opens his mouth ready to answer, then seems to think better of it.

“I shouldn’t say. No offence.”

“None taken.”  Elio feigns indifference.   _ What are the chances anyway _ ?

Elio is surprised Oliver has revealed as much as he has, so he doesn’t push.  

“But, I will tell you that we’re ranked in the top 5 pre-season in both the AP and ESPN polls.  We’re on everyone’s list for the BCS championships. We missed the Championships last season by one game, so after I entered the combine last year but it looked like I’d go in the first round but not the top ten, I decided to use up my last year of eligibility and come back for my senior year hoping to take the team all way to a National Championship.”

Elio blinks at him.

“I have  _ no  _ idea what any of what you just said means.”

“It means…”

Oliver has him rolled onto his back before he even knows it.  He pins Elio’s wrists up by the wall over his head with his hands.   Oliver looks down at him with a slick smile, his voice deep and wicked when he speaks again.  

“...That I’m fucking good.”

And there is it: that cockiness Elio knew must be within Oliver somewhere, hidden behind his inexperience and desperate to escape.   Elio loves it.

Oliver settles down in the cradle of Elio’s hips.  He’s already hard again, his cock barely contained by thin fabric of his boxers.  Elio adjusts his hips side to side giving Oliver even more room to sink into which he does, greedily.  

“Hmm,” Elio hums with coy sweetness.  Elio looks down between them, to where Oliver has already started to rub himself against Elio.  “I’m not sure you’ve fully proven to me just how  _ good  _ you are yet.”

He looks back to find Oliver’s eyes waiting for him.  The pale blue of his eyes seems darker, the perfect mix of gusto and want.  He understands Elio’s every wish.

A firm pull at the crook of he knees has Elio’s back flat on the mattress. A yank to his waistband leaves him naked, his pants ripped clear off over his feet. He hears a solid inhale from somewhere by his hip bone and then Elio is lost in the warm darkness of Oliver’s mouth.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School's in session! (Mostly preamble, some important Oliver history. Did I mention this is going to be long?)
> 
> Chiara's music choice is dedicated to the Harem.

_**August 27, 2018** _  
_**Northwestern University** _  
_**Evanston, Illinois** _

The first day of fall semester 2018 starts just like any other day for Oliver when he’s in peak season training mode.

The alarm on his phone goes off at 5:01am, nudging him into the early morning hour with a pleasant woodblock melody. If he snoozes that one, the alarm set for 5:05am is the old-school, foghorn alarm that makes it sound like the end of humanity is being announced in his bedroom. That alarm scares the crap out of him (and Chiara too, on the occasion that she’s slept over) so more often than not, he foregoes the extra 4 minutes of sleep just so he doesn’t start his day with terror.

He’s alone this morning so he doesn’t bother closing the bathroom door as he stagers in for a piss, strips down to nothing then wanders to his closet to put on his workout clothes. After a banana and a Power bar, he brushes his teeth, laces up his sneakers and begins the 3 mile run to the stadium.

It sometimes feels like he’s the only person awake in the world on these early morning runs. It might actually be true. What normal college student would be up so painfully early unless they’ve been up all night studying or more likely, are just finding their beds after a crazy night out?

But Oliver doesn’t mind the quiet these empty hours afford him, almost prefers it that way. He loves the way campus looks in the pre-dawn light. The sidewalks clear of congestion. The street lamps still glowing, reflecting the dew on the wide lawn beside the library.

He decides to take the lakeside path this morning, which is slightly longer but far more scenic. If he ran 13 miles to the right and he’d end up in downtown Chicago. Instead, he turns left, following the coast of Lake Michigan, watching the gentle waves that protect the campus on one side, expansive and calm, almost inky purple before the sunrise out of the corner of his eye. He leaves his iPhone, stocked with Kanye and Lil Wayne for later in his work out, in his pocket and instead just listens to the sound of his even but accelerating breath, the rhythmic slap of his feet on the pavement.

By the time he arrives at the practice facility, one of the assistant coaches is there - the quarterback coach, specifically hired and paid (quite handsomely, too) by the University to make sure Oliver is in top shape. He works with him in the gym tweaking every aspect of his technique and helps him on the sidelines with the nuances of his game.

There isn’t a team sport in existence that doesn’t live or die on the excellence of one player’s position. In baseball it’s the pitcher. In basketball, the point guard. In hockey, the goalie. In soccer, the striker.

In football, it’s the quarterback. Oliver knows he must work harder than all his teammates. Be stronger, better, more mentally focused. The blame for a terrible season will rest squarely on his shoulders. But so will the glory if they can win it all.

By the time he and QB coach are done with sprints and agility drills on the indoor track and Oliver is halfway through his routine in the weight room, it’s nearly 7am and a few of the other elite players with plans for a pro-ball future, including Des, have started to drag their way into the gym. The whole team will meet at the stadium after classes are done for the day for a three hour practice.

“Morning, Psych- _O_ ,” Des says, snapping a towel at Oliver’s sweating bicep. Oliver finishes his set, breathing heavy, as Des takes a casual seat on the machine next to him. He sets the barbells down with a clang. He’s upped his weights and reps this week and he can feel the hot ache in his arms as they recover from the strain.

“What time did you get here, man?” Des asks.

Oliver wipes his face with a towel and gives himself a second to catch his breath. “Before your lazy ass.”

He throws the towel at Des who gives him a censuring look.

“I texted you last night. Ruiz and Jackson and I were just chilling, played some Madden on the Xbox. Ruiz’s new girl came by. She’s…” Des pulls a face and Oliver can’t tell if that means she’s really hot or she’s really not. “You should have come by.”

“I was with Chiara.”

Des gives him another patented, 1000-watt smile. “Oh, I see how it is. I know my place, now. Girlfriend’s back in town finally and now it’s all, ‘Best friend who?””

Oliver grins at him. Like that would ever happen. He gets up off the weights bench, leaving behind a man-shaped outline in sweat. One of the team assistants will clean it up before anyone else uses it.

“Yep,” Oliver says, drolly. “What was your name again? And how did you get in here?”

Des snickers as Oliver sits on the next machine, one for his quads. Oliver adjusts the weights and begins, knees bending and flexing, muscles pushing to the limit. He feels the burn right away.

Chiara had gotten back to campus the previous night, that was true. Oliver had been happy to see her. But she had left after a short make out session on the couch and some cuddling while she complained about her flight back to O’Hare, leaving well before Des had texted him.

Instead of going to see his friends on the eve of their last night of school, Oliver had turned in early, looking through pictures on his phone.

Truth is, he’s been in full on "avoid mode" since getting back from Italy. He’s had a hard time adjusting to life back in Illinois. He had only traveled for two weeks and yet, being in that timeless city, surrounded by places he’d only ever dreamed of seeing with his own eyes, those two weeks had been enough to change him. Make him more appreciative of the greater world beyond NU, beyond his home and his family, beyond football. Seems the whole “cultural exchange” the Athletic Director had talked about in his pre-trip talk had really worked on Oliver and he’s missing it now.

His last night with Elio had only further helped to cast a glowing light on the whole experience too. He hadn’t gotten off that many times in one night. Not ever.

“Oliver.”

His name snaps him back to attention.

He and Des have about a million nicknames for each other, built up over nearly a decade of friendship. _Ollie, QB, 24. Boss-man_ when he’s changing a call. _Cap_ when he’s giving an inspiring mid-huddle speech. _Psych-O_ like Does had this morning when he’s pushing himself too far. So it’s almost strange to hear his best friend use his given name, unironic and concerned.

“You know we got this this season, right? We’re gonna be good. Real good. And all of us,” he gestures at the gym that has started to fill. “We got your back. So you don’t need to lay yourself out for our sake before we even really get started. Alright? ”

Oliver lets his legs drop to the floor. They’re trembling.

“Alright,” He huffs, realizing how much he’d needed to hear this. Des offers a hand to help Oliver up and he takes it, their grip strong as Des yanks him up. Work out officially over.

*

Giving someone a key to your place is meant to be a major milestone in a relationship, right? At least that is always how it’s made out in movies. A sign of trust, of commitment. The next, mammoth “step”.

Perhaps that had been the case for Oliver and Chiara too, but in reality it had come from a place of practicality. His apartment in Wilson Tower - a modern, high end, 15 story apartment building where most of the scholarship players live (NCAA violations, what?) - is closer to campus then her Tri Delt sorority house over on Sheridan Rd. And last spring when she’d taken an 8am art class that always required lots of supplies, it was easier for her just drop them off at his place after class so she didn’t have to carry them with her all day. He’d given her the key as an afterthought and just never bothered to ask for it back.

After a while, he began to like having her around, even when he was not expecting her. This morning is one such time.

It’s only just a bit past 8am by the time he arrives back at his apartment, greeted with the smell of coffee and bacon, and Chiara standing barefoot in his white, open-concept kitchen, wearing a short, floral dress that shows off her shoulders, singing along to Harry Styles.

He and Chiara grew up in the same town, but went to different elementary and middle schools, so they didn’t meet freshman year of high school. Chiara was, and is, the type of girl everyone wants. She takes good care of herself, always dresses well, stays in shape. She’s especially tan now from spending the summer as a camp counselor at an all-girls camp in Maine. She has tight curls of dark blond hair that bounce around her face when her naturally bubbly personality takes over.

She’s a sociology major, president of her sorority and sex on legs. Even Oliver knows that. But the irony is is that Oliver has never had sex with her and he never will have sex with her unless they get married.

Coming from a very devout Catholic family, he and Chiara had agreed to a Virginity Pact with each other - no sexual intercourse until marriage. It had been her idea but Oliver’s saving grace.

When they’d started dating, they’d fooled around just like every normal teenage couple, even though Oliver knew he prefered guys. Make out sessions in the back of his parent’s car while idling in her driveway. Hands under her shirt while watching a movie in the dark of her basement. He quickly decided that kissing her wasn’t bad. They had experimented enough for Oliver to know that kissing, touching, possibly fucking, a girl wouldn’t be so repulsive. He could do it, even if it all felt muted, like he was doing everything through a layer of thick wool, the sensations just not nearly enough to truly turn him on.

One quiet summer afternoon, while at a friend’s lake camp for the day, they’d found a bedroom away from the rest of the house. They’d been together for over a year and peer pressure is a bitch. So when they’d started making out, he’d slipped his fingers into her bikini bottoms, unprepared for the warm wetness that clung to the pubic hair between her legs. He’d pressed where hair gave way to silky flesh with two fingers, around and around and then in.

Her reaction had been enough for a surge of endorphins to rush through him, his cheeks going hot. This was it. They were going to have sex. And strangest of all, he almost wanted to. So what that he was losing his virginity to a girl? The word “bi” had flashed through his mind in the millisecond before Chiara started to cry.

She sat with her back against the headboard, face in her hands to cover deep, heaving sobs. Oliver had been petrified that he’d hurt her somehow.

“I can’t,” she’d wept. “I want to and I love you but...I just can’t.”

She’d explained her wish to stay a virgin until she got married, repeating again and again how sorry she was for leading him on for so long.  
“I know your religion doesn’t look so seriously at pre-marital sex like mine does.” There had been something so “after-school special” about the way she’d talked. Like some sort of formulaic indoctrination. “And I know your family isn’t as devout as mine is, either. And that’s fine, so I get if you can’t understand,” she’d sniffled even though it’s true. Oliver’s Judaism barely even registers in his daily life, let alone his sex life. “I’m so weird for even asking, right? You must hate me. I totally understand if you want to break up.”

But what she didn’t know what that she’d given him the perfect cover. Instead of getting pissed like a normal 17 year old guy would have, he’d played the understanding boyfriend, totally ready to respect her wishes, kissing away her tears chastely. She’d fallen in more in love with in that moment. Hopelessly devoted to the boy who would wait.

For the past 7 years, Oliver has been able to hide his lack of true desire for her with the perfect foil, sustained with hand jobs, the occasional blowie when she’s feeling generous, lots and lots of masturbating and those encounters with men that he seeks out when he can no longer resist. Every time he finds himself in a man’s bed, he’s reminded of how axis-shifting sex can be when it feels right. When he wants his lover just as much as they want him. It’s a glimpse of what he could have. And how very much not straight he is.

But every act of self-confirmation is also an act of unfaithfulness to someone he has been committed to for a long time. He might not want to fuck Chiara, but he does love her. She’s been by his side through everything. Tough losses, injuries, shit grades, fights with teammates, awful family holidays. She is his best friend. He could imagine a life with her, and probably not a bad one.

This feeling of disloyalty had been especially keen seeing her again after Italy. She’d been so happy to see him, flung herself into his arms, knowing he’d catch and hold her weight as she wrapped her legs around him. But it had felt duplicitous to share in her overt, simple joy.

He has found himself clinging to the memory of Elio more than other guys he’s been with before. But why? What was it about this anonymous encounter that made it stand out? The European setting? The liberal chances he’d taken in revealing his true identity? Why can he still remember the feel of Elio’s curls brushing against his naked chest as he kisses his way down Oliver’s body? The feel of Elio’s slim waist and torso encircled in his muscled arms? And stranger still, why remember the way Elio had made him laugh almost as vividly? The sincerity of his eyes afterwards? _Fucking hell, those eyes._

He’d even tried to find him on Facebook the other night after rubbing another one out to the memories, but with just a first name to go on (and maybe not even his real name) it had been a fool’s quest.

He drops his bag, full of his sweaty work out clothes, and wraps his arms around Chiara’s waist. She feels slim in his arms, too.

“I know you’re not really supposed to eat the full-fat bacon,” she says, ducking her head away from his needy kiss. “But turkey bacon is so processed and full of sodium, and pretty much tastes like shit, so why not eat the real stuff? It can’t hurt if you only eat it every once and awhile, right?”

She drops several slices from the pan onto a plate alongside a hearty portion of scrambled eggs, some whole grain toast and cut up melon. She turns around in his arms, presenting his breakfast.

“This looks great, babe. Thank you,” he says but it carries the same inflection as I’m sorry.

She shrugs, purely happy. “I just wanted you to start the semester off with a hearty meal. Cause I love you and I’m proud of you.” She hands Oliver his plate so she can cup his face in her hands. “It’s our senior year, babe. Can you believe it?”

He shakes his head and kisses her quickly, taking a seat at the kitchen counter as she pours him coffee and chats cheerfully on.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well hi there, Pro.
> 
> And Elio...?
> 
> Thank you for all you crazy CMBYN and football fans who have left comments along the way. You fill my heart to bursting!

First day, syllabus day. Professors and students alike are happy to ease their way back into the semester, turning what is usually a 55 minute lecture into a 15 minute cursory review of the basics: come to class, don’t plagiarize, use the office hours, and Yes, it will all be on the exam.

His first class is Statistics, eeking out a math requirement that he probably should have taken as a freshman or sophomore but just never got to it. The class is massive, over 150 students sitting in the amphitheater style lecture hall. Oliver hangs towards the back, trying to keep a low profile.

With so many underclassmen in the class, he gets his fair share of double takes. People wondering if it’s really him, having been inundated during orientation about the awesome Northwestern Wildcats football team. He watches them text their friends giddily when its confirmed either by a fellow classmate or a quick look at the Northwestern Football homepage, letting them know Oliver- _freaking_ -Sugarman is in his class.

He should be used to the notirity by now. His face is on national television nearly every week, after all, but he wonders what it would be like, from time to time, to just be normal. To only have to worry about his performance in the classroom and forget all the rest. Oliver without football wouldn’t be Oliver anymore. It would be a different life, but it might an alright one too.

His next obligation is a meeting with his new advisor so he grabs a smoothie at the student union and then hops on the cross campus bus.

This building, nearly as much as the stadium, feels like home. Here, he can slip into a second skin that feels just as valuable and valid as the other. He loves the classic academic architecture, the narrow halls and musty smell of books that breaches your nose the minute you step foot inside, as if the leather bound pages that line the bookshelves of his professor’s offices are as ancient as the subject matter they explore.

It’s no wonder, really, that Oliver manifests the same kind dichotomy in his interests as he does with his inward and projected private lives. Somewhere in the middle, between the two poles, that is where the real Oliver exists.

His new advisor, a visiting professor from Milan, was hired over the summer after his old advisor and Department Chair, had to take a personal leave to tend to an ailing parent. All the higher ups in his department are incredibly excited. Oliver had read all of his books - he’s a brilliant author with a readable, almost conversational voice, something Oliver values as it makes the subject that he finds so fascinating more easily accessible for others.

Oliver checks his phone, he’s right on time. He knocks and almost immediately, Dr. Samuel Perlman opens the door with a grandiose gesture.

He’s short, a bit round in the middle, with a trim, salt and pepper beard. He wears a short-sleeve polo shirt and shorts along with boat shoes, a stark contrast to the tweed and corduroy prefered by the rest of the Classics department faculty. It’s almost like he’s forgotten today is the first day of class and is still wearing his summer clothes. Or maybe this is just his MO and won’t be bothered.

“You must be Oliver,” he states, his voice robust. “Northwestern University Classics departments’ very own Achilles. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“You as well, Professor, or...er, Dr. Perlman?”

“I’d rather everyone just called me Sammy, if I’m honest,” he says as he welcomes Oliver in to his office. It’s one of the larger rooms, with ample light and a decent view. He sweeps his arm towards the chair opposite his desk, encouraging Oliver to sit. “Italian universities tend to not be so concerned about what our students calls us as long as we do our job. Very different from those Germans, with their Herr Doktor Professors,” He says it with the same austere seriousness that a German academic might. Oliver doesn’t quite get the joke but he does like the playfulness of the statement so he smiles anyway.

“The provost here is quite insistent we use ‘titles’.” He settles in his chair, highlighting the last word with a flash of his hands, as if he’s selling some newfangled invention. A smile pinches his lips. “Who, knows maybe he’s right after all, so Professor Perlman is fine.”

Oliver nods, his backpack stuffed in his lap. “Well, then it’s an honor to meet you, Professor Perlman.”

“So.”

Professor Perlman pulls out a manilla folder and Oliver scoots forward in his seat. He knows what is in there, printed on recycled paper in size 11 arial font and 1.5 spacing: the bare bones of his graduation honors thesis.

There are few players of his calibre that take the student part of “student” athlete quite as seriously as Oliver. It’s been a bone of contention more than once between him and Coach when he was worried Oliver’s number of credit hours were too ambitious.

“How’s the schedule looking for this semester?” Coach had asked at one of their first practices back on US soil just a few days ago. He and Oliver were watching wide receivers and tight ends practice running routes from the endzone.

“Light load,” Oliver had said, squirting some blue gatorade in his mouth around the facemask of his helmet. “A few required courses left but mostly I just need to work on my thesis.”

“You know you’re not going to need any of that right, son? You’re going to have a long, lucrative career doing this.” He’d gestured at the playing field.

“Everyone’s got to have a hobby right?”

“Ancient philosophy.” He’d clicked his tongue. “Hell of a hobby. Why not golf?”

Oliver had smiled, giving him a slightly repentant look. The last thing he’d wanted was for Coach to feel like he wasn’t totally focused on the season ahead. “It’ll be fine. I promise. I don’t have to turn it in until graduation, anyway. Season will be long over by then.”

Down field Des had called for him and with almost instinctual motion, Oliver had cocked the ball over his shoulder and thrown a perfect spiral 40 yards to midfield. The look he’d given Coach as he’d jogged away to highfive Des had been anything but contrite.

“Heraclitis and his Fragments,” Professor Perlman states, holding the document at arm’s length.

“That’s the plan, yes.”

“It’s ambitious. Greater thinkers than you have tried to make sense of this work and haven’t come up with much, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Not at all.”

“Keeping in mind that I’ve not read all the way through, I don’t think you’re in terrible shape.” He accompanies that statement with a smile to make sure Oliver knows he meant that as a compliment. “This is complex stuff, and it’s needs a good deal of firming up, but you’re on the right track. I’ll admit to being impressed. Seems you’re a hero both on and off the field. I take it you did most of this over summer.”

“Summer, and even a bit last spring, yes.”

“Good plan. You’ve got quite the season ahead, haven’t you? Lots of expectations.”

Oliver narrows his eyes slightly, reading between some of the Professor’s statements. “Do you follow football, Professor?”

  
“I grew up on Long Island before I fell in love with a French girl on a weekend trip to Paris and decided I simply _had_ to become an ex-pat.” There is nothing but fondness on his face as he puts Oliver’s paper back into the folder. “But, growing up on Long Island, I may have gone to more than my fair share of Giants games with my grandfather. It’s a fabulous sport.”

Oliver couldn’t be more giddy. While he’s become like part of the fixtures around the department with a reputation as a good student and classmate, most faculty and students don’t “get” why he still does what he does. Football seems like some brutish, useless past time to them.

“Let me know if you ever want to come to a game. I can usually get a few people into the President’s box unless we’re playing Michigan or Ohio State.”

“I will most definitely take you up on that. We’ll talk again soon, Oliver. Football and philosophy - what a combination!” He laughs jovially and Oliver can’t even believe his luck.

Oliver is full of warm, unsuspecting smiles as Professor Perlman shoos him out of his office, too distracted to notice the picture framed on the wall of a sweet middle aged couple, flanking a boy about the age of 14 with unruly brown curls and the very eyes Oliver had dreamed of the night before, soft yet piercing,able to see through to your very soul.

*

Context, as they say, is everything.

This is a critical concept for the study of historical texts.  Putting their meaning into the cultural fabric in which they were written is the only way to fully grasp their meaning. For example, trying to read the work of the Stoics without considering the proximity to the rise of Christianity in Rome at the time would put you largely off course.

This is also true for how an emotion might be felt or a statement might be taken. Something said by a friend out of worry in a moment of crisis might sound ridiculous or even downright cruel if the same thing were said sometime else.

Seeing a person out of their usual context can also leave your brain reeling as it tries to make sense of this person being in a place that have never and should not logically exist in. When this happens, it’s easy for one to wonder if they are seeing things. Or having a stroke, maybe.

This is the exact confusion that Oliver experiences when, still riding the high from his meeting with Prof. Perlman, he walks down the hall to his upper level seminar on Plato’s Dialogues (to be read and translated from the Greek), takes a seat and sits directly across the oval shaped conference table from Elio.

_Elio._

_How?_

His heart thuds so hard in his chest Oliver can feel himself pitch forward in his seat.

After looking around the room, even going so far to surreptitiously open Twitter to make sure he hasn’t slipped into some alternate reality, he is left with no doubt that this his Roman Elio and not just some cruel doppelganger put here to taunt him, even if Elio is decidedly more clothed than the last time he’d seen him.

Elio had come in his mouth only a few minutes after Oliver had started going down on him with little more than a quick hiss followed by a stifled groan. Considering Elio had just had another orgasm less than 15 minutes before, Elio either had a remarkable refractory period or Oliver had really honed his cocksucking skills.

“Not bad for a rookie.” Elio had grinned, pulling Oliver up and probing his mouth, seeking his own taste with his tongue.

“Not a rookie, remember?” Oliver had stated. “Just benched for a bit.”

Elio’s smile had been impish, almost carefree, with a small wrinkle to his nose and a soft creasing of his brow. Oliver had kissed it as if to capture it. There had been so much kissing after that. What felt like hours of idle kissing. Kisses so deep Oliver felt like he was drowning. Kisses so light he felt like he might evaporate. The kind of aimless exploration that made time stopped. They’d kissed and touched until they’d needed release again.

Elio had turned away, pressing his ass back into the angle of Oliver’s hips and slide Oliver’s cock between his thighs. The soft skin had been slick with sweat from the night heat, from their bodies closeness and Oliver had bucked forward into the friction. The slip had been beautiful and easy, the head of Oliver’s cock nudging the backside of Elio’s ball sack with each pass. Then Elio had guided Oliver’s hand to his own cock, covering his fingers with is own for a moment to set the pace just so and then they’d moved together. Thrusting, rolling, moving. A gorgeous close second to the real thing.

Elio had felt so real, alive and responsive in Oliver’s arms. He had loved the way Elio had moved closer, almost becoming smaller the nearer he came to climax.

“Fuck, I love this, Oliver,” Elio had murmured and Oliver had bit the skin of Elio’s shoulder for fear of saying something completely obscene.

“Do you have Snapchat?” Elio had asked afterwards as he stood in those dangerous grey sweats and watched Oliver put his shoes on.

“Not one that’s public. I do have IG and twitter, though.  I have over 100,000 followers.” 

“I’m sure you do.”

"Why you wanna follow me?"  He’d given him a rogue smile and Elio had rolled his eyes, unimpressed.

The night was long gone by that point, closer to sunrise than sunset. There had been a series of messages from Des when he’d finally gotten out of bed to check his phone, each one with more and more drunken mis-spellings until the last message arrived, letter perfect, accompanied by a crooked picture of his empty bed at the Airbnb that said, _You better not be fucking dead._

“It’s too bad you’re leaving tomorrow,” Elio had said.  He’d feigned any kind of sincerity, refusing to make eye contact and examining his nails instead. “You’re kind of fun, actually.  You know, for a burly American jock.”

Oliver remembers a surge of affection which had been too entirely soon and clearly misplaced. Still, he’d played along.

“You aren’t half bad, either, for a pretentious European fuck boy.”

That had caught Elio’s attention. He’d touched his bare chest gently with the tips of his fingers, gentille indignation.

“Oh, oh, you think _I'm_  a pretentious European? You wound me.”

“I like how that’s the part you pretend to be offended by.”

“Well, when the shoe fits…”

He’d grabbed Oliver rough by the front of his shirt and pulled him back into his apartment with another kiss.

Oliver had made the bus to the airport by minutes.  He'd given Des a look that made it clear it was best not to ask.  His skin still had smelled of sweat and the semen of two men.  His lips had burned from the feel of Elio's mouth. He’d been half hard the whole flight home, just with the remembering.

Now Elio is sitting across from him, alert and interested as the professor beings the class. His rounded curls are styled and parted carefully at one side, tucked at the ears. His pale pink tee-shirt, with a wide v-neck and trim European fit, is a completely uninhibited choice. He had a brand new spiral bound notebook open in front of him. He balances a pencil, sharpened to an exact point, between his first two fingers.

The syllabus is handed out and the stack of papers make their way around the table. Oliver keeps his eyes firmly fixed as he passes the pile to the person next to him.  When it finally reaches his side of the table, Elio lifts his gaze Oliver’s way. He looks right at him and then right through him. Not a single muscle on his face twitches with even the vaguest indication of familiarity.

Less than two weeks ago they had shared, what for Oliver, had been one of the best nights of his life and Elio doesn’t recognize him.

Or maybe even worse, Elio has completely forgotten him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up for those following along!
> 
> The next chapter is slightly shorter, so I'll post it sooner (over the weekend) with plans to post the next full chapter again on Monday.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver talk. And man, Elio swears a lot.

Sometimes it is immeasurably helpful that Elio knows how to swear in three different languages because, in this current moment, Elio needs every single curse word in his arsenal.

Mother of fuck. _Here?_ Oliver plays football _here_?

He hurries as quickly as he can from the classroom, leaving with a brusqueness that was borderline rude to the professor. But _bordel de merde_ he cannot believe this is happening.

Because of all the schools in this sprawling, over-populated, behemoth of a country, _porca troia...ici_?

“Elio!”

That strapping baritone interwoven with something melodic and shy makes Elio’s spine tingle. How is it possible that he’s pretty sure he would have recognized that voice anywhere after spending just one night with it? He keeps his back turned to the the sound, walking away from the long strides he know will eventually overtake him. Unless, of course, Elio breaks out in a full sprint, which wouldn’t be obvious at all.

He presses his eyes closed before turning crisply on his heel.

They are closer together than either expected and Oliver has to pull up quickly, counteracting his momentum or else he would have crashed right into Elio. His eyes are disbelieving, just as desperate to understand as Elio is. His collared dark purple NU-Football shirt and shorts, give him a preppy, clean-cut, would-never-drop-to-his-knees-to-worship-cock look but Elio knows better.

“You are Elio, right?”

Elio pulls a bland face, hoping it passes for calm.

“Yeah. And?”

“Do you really not…it’s me. Oliver?” He steps in closer, drops his voice. “From Rome?”

He’s nervous again, just like he had been when he’d first arrived at Elio’s apartment. And just like that night, there is some instinctual need for Elio quell those nerves. What the everloving fuck is wrong with him?

Quick as he can, Elio looks for a private place for them to talk. He’d seen a study lounge just down the hall on his way to class earlier, wondering who would ever use that space with its old desktop computers and a shitty printer. Lucky for them, the answer is absolutely no one, so he nods his head in that direction and Oliver obediently follows.

The space is small but there is enough room for Elio to begin pacing in between the banks of computers until Oliver closes the door behind them.

“Of course I fucking remember you. I recognized you the second you walked in the door. It’s not every night you have a guy in your bed claiming to be some future draft pick for the NF-whatever the fuck,” Elio says with an aggressive hand wave.

Oliver visibly relaxes. “I thought maybe you’d…I don’t know. How is this possible?” Oliver asks himself.  Or Elio. The universe, maybe. Any person, place or thing that can explain this ridiculous joke that is being played on them.

Elio had sought some anonymous encounter that night because he’d assumed it would be just that: anonymous. There for one night only, never to be seen or heard from again. The fact that Oliver was American hadn’t felt like a big deal. Plenty of American guys come through Europe, looking for a good time. He certainly hadn’t been Elio’s first tourist. When Elio realized he was a fellow student, that hadn’t really bothered him either. When he’d asked Oliver where he went to school, it had mostly been in jest, a little flirtation to add to the mood not because he thought there was even the remotest possibility that they might end up at school together. Even more impossible than that, the same bloody class.

“What are you doing my upper level Classics seminar?” Elio snaps.

“Um, I’m fulfilling my degree requirements,” Oliver snaps back. “What are you doing in _my_ upper level Classics seminar? You live in Rome.”

“No, I was regrouping in Rome. I’d been going to school in Paris before but...Wait, degree requirements? The fuck... _You’re_ a classics major? Mr. Hotshot starting quarterback is a _classics_ major?” His voice has become more shrill than he would like.

Oliver sits his hips back against the table, crossing his arms with a sudden smugness Elio can’t quite deal with. It’s almost as if he likes that Elio is clearly as flustered by this unexpected reunion as he is.

  
“A classics major focusing in pre-Socratic philosophers with a 3.7 GPA. Yeah. I am. How do you think I recognized that ridiculous Metamorphosis quote on your Grindr profile?”

“I figured you Googled it just like everyone else.”

Oliver’s face softens at Elio’s unintentional reveal.

“Why didn’t you say anything about coming to school in the states?” Oliver asks and Elio levels him with a look.

“I don’t remember us doing an awful lot of talking that night.”

“But we talked enough that you could have mentioned...”

“I’d only just decided to come here a week or so before we met,” he interrupts. “I barely knew anything about the place aside from the fact that it has a pretty well respected music program, at least in this country. Certainly not enough to know it has some big deal football team. And besides, what were the chances?”

“I’m not a betting man, but these certainly weren’t odds I would have placed a wager on, that’s for sure.”

Elio takes a second to look, really look, at Oliver. He’s just a cute as he remembered, with his shoulder still drawn up nervously towards his ears.

“The Music school, huh?” Oliver opts for a conversational tone. “That’s really cool. I remember you had a guitar.”

“Well, I’m piano concentration. Composition major. I just added a classics minor, well, cause I can here,” Elio offers as if to explain his presence in this exact building. Oliver nods and Elio is left feeling like it’s his turn to attempt conversation.  
  
“So, a jock with a brain. Color me impressed,” Elio says, with a bored lift of his shoulder. “I didn’t think people like you existed.”

“It makes for a great human interest story. I think every bad pun about Greek gods or Roman gladiators has been made about me at least once. The ESPN announcers think they are so fucking clever.”

Elio stares at him blankly.

“You keep using these words thinking I know what they mean.”

Oliver grins, patiently. “ESPN. It’s a cable sports network that shows games. You know,” he says with some heavy-handed condescension. “On the T.V.”

“Yeah, alright,” Elio says with an eye roll and an unbidden smile.

It’s too easy to notice that the tension in the room has slipped away. There is a certain softness to the looks they share now. Like now that they’ve accepted that impossible fact that they are both here in the same city, the same school, the same class, it might not be such a terrible thing.

And into that ease slips the remembered attraction. The baffling intimacy they’d found by the end of their night together that had allowed for the moment where, after Elio had pulled Oliver back into his apartment once again, he had laid Oliver back on his mattress. He had been completely naked, boneless and yielding beneath him, as if he was ready to completely give himself over. And before Elio had brought him off one last time, letting Oliver empty his orgasm into the back of his throat, Elio had pressed his finger against the tightness of Oliver’s ass, just enough to breach the rim. It had ignited such terrified want in those bright-blue eyes that Elio had known, he’d _known_ , he would have been allowed to feel Oliver from the inside if only he had more time.

He could use Oliver. Not as a friend or a lover necessarily (though he certainly wouldn’t mind having back in his bed again), but as a touchstone. Something familiar. Someone who could help him from feeling like he’s floating in free fall and help him navigate this new experience with a bit more panache. And maybe even some fun.

“Look,” Oliver says. “This is crazy that you’re here and I hope you love your time at Northwestern as much as I do but it’s probably for the best if we don’t...interact.”

Elio is wholly unprepared for his bluntness. His cheeks are still flushed from the memory of their night together.

“I mean, I know we’re in class together,” he continues. “We’ll have to interact, discussion grades and everything, but what I mean is, we shouldn’t be...friendly.”

“Why not?” Elio says after another stunned beat.

“It’s nothing personal. In fact, I think you’re…” Oliver stops himself. He presses his eyes closed and shakes his head sadly, taking another steadying breath before starting again. “It would just make things really difficult for me. Like I said before...no one knows about me. About me and…” He’s careful with the volume of the next word. “ _Men_. In fact, you’re the only person on this entire campus who does.”

It’s a secret that should bond them. But instead it is what Oliver wants to use to force a wedge between them. Between even the possibility of them. That hurts more than Elio would care to admit.

“Do you think I’m going to out you?” Elios asks, as if this whole turn in conversation could not get any more ridiculous.

“Well, are you? There are plenty of reporters that would pay lots of money for that story.” Oliver is so tightly wound Elio can imagine just how rapidly his heart must be pounding in his chest. How his pulse jumps through the veins in his throat. Elio knows, because he’s felt Oliver’s racing heartbeat under his tongue before.

Elio brushes the visceral memory away with a callous scoff. “Jesus, give me some credit, Oliver. I’m not like that. Why do you think I acted like I had no idea who you were when you walked in, huh? I wasn’t about to make a scene. And I’m not going to post something to Snapchat, either. Like, ‘OMG you’ll never guess who I fucked in Rome this summer!’” Then dropping the Valley-girl voice for something made of carbon steel, “No wait, sorry, _didn’t_ fuck.”

“Will you keep your voice down?”

Elio spins around with his hands up, as if looking for someone to send into a panic. “Are you seriously tied so tightly to the back of the closet you can’t even associate with people who sleep with men? Is that it? I am I really such a threat to your carefully curated machismo?”

Oliver sighs, a sound so heavy it seems to take on a physical weight. His words seems to weight him down just as much. 

“I’m very grateful for what you did in there. And that night with you was...But that still doesn’t change the fact that when I’m here,” he turns his palms down, gesturing towards the floor as if the crap, vomit-colored carpet in the study room represents some sort of sacred ground. “That part of me doesn’t exist, ok?”

There is a desperate, end of discussion quality not only to the way Oliver speaks but the way he looks down and away, his handsome frame folded inward, his eyes filled with something Elio can only call regret. He’d almost feel sorry for him if this summary rejection hasn’t left Elio strangely crestfallen.

He reacts to this sort of uncomfortable emotion the best way he knows how.

“You know what? Fine. I don’t even fucking want to be at this school. So don’t worry, _champ_ ,” Elio slides one last snub in for extra effect. “This conversation never happened. And neither did Rome.”

With a swing of his backpack over his shoulder and a slam of the door, Elio is gone.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio, Elio, Elio, Elio.
> 
> Oh. And Marzia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously though...I cannot thank you all enough for the love and support you all are showing this fic. I've read every single comment and they have all made my day. I promise to reply one of these days, but I'm choosing to spend my time writing rather than replying. But seriously. SO MUCH LOVE. xx

_**August 31, 2018** _  
_**The Northwestern Wildcats, on the eve of a season with Championship expectations, travel to Nashville to take on a rebuilding LSU team on neutral ground.** _ _**-SportsNation** _

People are just too damned happy. That's the biggest difference Elio noticies between school here and what he'd left behind in Paris.

Maybe it's the sheer size of the university - over 20,000 students, with 80 different undergrad majors plus a Med school and a Law school versus the exclusivity and intensity of a conservatory with less than 500 students.

Maybe it's the sprawling campus with trees and green spaces and a lake so big it nearly looks like an ocean where the majority of students live in close quarters, either on campus or adjacent student apartments that keep them connected to each other as opposed to a school that takes up one city block and a student population spread across a massive city to wherever rent is cheapest.

Maybe it's the fact that there seems to be a club for pretty much everything. Sports, debate, improv theater, religious affiliations, you name it. There is even a Northwestern Quidditch team. Quidditch. From the damn books. And they plays actual games. With uniforms. Against other schools. It's ridiculous.

Everyone, even the transplants from other nations and opposing coasts seem to have cottoned onto the cheerful midwestern niceness, too. Always a “please” and a “thank you”. A door held open, even if it's an inconvenience. When someone asks, "How you doing?" it actually seems like a genuine inquiry and not just a turn of phrase. And it's not just the students who appear chipper all the time either, but the bus drivers. The people who make his cappuccino at Starbucks at the student union in the morning. His landlord. He knows it's not true, human heartache exists everywhere, even in those with the sunniest veneer. But it feels that way to Elio. Like everyone around him has been handed a pair of rose colored glasses but Elio has lost his.

Where are the people suffering for their craft? Struggling to find their purpose? Lost with their early 20's, existential angst? Maybe that isn't the American model for university, where there is support staff for everything from mental health to job placement. Maybe it's just Elio and his European inclinations. Maybe it's because he feels so keenly disconnected from it all, but there is a genuine community here with their matching purple and white paraphernalia that Elio can't wrap his head around one bit.

One week in and he struggles to find his footing. His American half, handed down from his father, feels woefully underdeveloped. Even though he speaks with their same, unaccented English, his syntax and cadence is decidedly steeped in the Romance languages. Even though he has dual citizenship, he has spent such little time here across the pond that he feels less like a civilian and more like a tourist, and an unimpressed one at that. He's tried not to walk around campus with a perpetual sneer on his face, but is pretty sure he's failed.

Add to all this, the impossible reconnection with Oliver, the hook-up turned classmate that has left him stinging with an unexpected wound and Elio wishes he'd never decided to come here at all.

He misses Paris. He misses the Conservatoire with it’s legacy, centuries of the world's best having trained and taught in the very same rooms he used to sit in. Treading the same halls as Boulangier and Satie and Berlioz and Piazzolla and thousands more whose names people still speak with reverence. He misses the fashionable feel of the city, the cool _laissez faire_ , the metro, the rain on the sidewalks, the night life. He misses…

Well, best not to dwell.

The Greek system boggles the mind. Fraternities of brothers and sisters that have so little to do with the ancient societies they are trying to emulate. They inhabit massive old homes along Sheridan Drive that at one time must have belonged to high-class families, made wealthy in Chicago's banking or industrial boom but are now decorated with garish Greek lettering on the side. Their lawns are trampled and worn, some even roped off with orange, plastic fencing and are littered with slews of red cups come Sunday morning, debris from a good night.

Even the School of Music has a fraternity and Elio is encouraged to rush at least 5 times in the first week by fellow, well-meaning music students, trumpet players and music education majors mostly.

And while he has absolutely zero intention of joining, he's more than happy to go to their party on the first Friday of the semester and drink their alcohol.

The house, a red painted building with a glossy black door and the letters Phi Mu Alpha over the front porch, is darkened on the inside save for endless strands of Christmas lights and the odd black or strobe light in a corner. The music pumped through the house is rap and hip-hop and miles from the etudes and symphonies his fellow party goers attempt to perfect during the day.

He sees some vaguely familiar faces manning the keg and they greet him with some overly excited _You made it!'s_ and _Psyched you're here, bro’s_ and a shot or two of something cinnamon flavored. The beer they hand him, in one of those god-forsaken red cups, is warm but it's free and no one had carded him (God, he misses that, too) so who is he to complain?

He wanders deeper into the house. The music swells and he finds a place against the wall to watch the dance floor. This is music school, so boys dance with boys. Girls dance with girls. Anything goes. He watches the bodies in motion, lines and curves, and likes them both. He hasn't been with anyone since Oliver and tonight might be the night. This is his chance to get the bitter taste Oliver's immediate dismissal has left him with out of his mouth.

He moves to the dance floor and lets his body react to the bass-heavy beat. He's all shoulders and hips on the dance floor, smooth and carefree. He tosses his head back to expose the length of his neck, the red cup balanced high between his fingers so as not to spill one drop.

The people around him are friends, classmates and bandmates and lovers. They've gone to class, performed and partied together since freshman year. Even though the university is massive, the School of Music is small - only about 600 students so he knows he is the intruder. The unknown entity suddenly in their midst. The guy who transfered from Paris Conservatoire. He's not exactly sure what rumors are being told, but can only assume that whispers about why someone would choose leave Paris for Evanston abound.

A pretty girl starts dancing nearby. Slim with dark wavy hair, she's wearing pale blue skinny jeans and a bright yellow top that shows off her midriff. Elio smiles at her and she smiles back, tucking a bit of hair behind her ear.

Bingo.

"I'm Marzia. Flute performance," She explains over the music as they dance closer together a few minutes later. "You're Elio, you transferred from Paris, right?"

Elio nods, aligning the movement to the beat.

“You’re Italian though, right?”

"Si, sta vero," Elio replies and her face brightens.

In very broken Italian she explains that she just spent the summer in Italy, at the Spoleto Festival. It's a very prestigious summer institute so of course Elio knows it. They speak (in English) of the Italian coast and the operas she had performed and mutual names they both know who had played in the orchestra with her, all while drinking more of the lukewarm beer. Elio finds that she feels familiar somehow, like a bridge, however narrow or tenuous, between home and here. What Oliver could have been if he’d allowed himself to be.

They end up on the front porch, glistening with dance sweat and flirting. Their shoulders brush sloppily as they share a cigarette. When Elio kisses her, she yields, turning towards him like she'd been waiting for it.

"Should we get out here, Mariza?"

He likes the loose way she nods, her eyes heavy and conspiring.

They fuck twice. Once on Elio's couch, his pants barely pulled over his hips before he puts on a condom and is inside her. And then again in his bed, messy and blurry, before they both fall quickly asleep. He wakes up to her hair, wild, on the pillow next to him.

Instead of any morning-after awkwardness, they take the L downtown to the Chicago Art Museum. Elio is pleasantly surprised by the quality of the art collection and the company, both. Marzia is sweet and inquisitive, happy to listen to Elio prattle on, expressing his lofty opinions, but also offer how own, even when it differs.

If he were the type, this could be the beginning of something important. He could imagine falling into those same patterns from over the summer, reaching for her hand as they walked through Grant Park, telling her how beautiful she is with the sun setting over the lake. He could kiss her again slowly and offer her a place in his bed again.

Instead, she begins speaking of a boy back home, confiding in Elio more like a potential friend instead of a potential lover.

"We're not together or anything, but..." The breeze ruffles her hair and he catches the scent of his own shampoo that she'd used that morning. "We've known each other since we were kids but I’ve always like him. And this was the first summer he really took notice. We had a good time, if you know what I mean?"

“I can hazard a guess,” Elio says, matching the twinkle in her eye.

“Now I just...kind of can’t get him out of my head,” She admits, sweetly.

“Yeah,” Elio confirms without her asking. “I know how that is, too.”

Elio had used Marzia to see if he could purge Oliver from his system. Marzia had used Elio to see if she was ready to move on. The answer had been “no” in both cases. Their night together had been means to a fruitless end and Elio finds himself not caring one bit. He’s forged friendships based off stranger connections, so why not this?

They go to a small house party later that night, no more than 15 people or so. Marzia introduces Elio to her upperclassmen and grad student friends. They drink craft beer and smoke a bowl of weak midwestern weed. This setting is far more comfortable of Elio, more like the parties his parents would have on summer nights at their home in B. where the music would play low and interesting (some local jam band, in this case) and the conversation would be thoughtful but still full of laughter.

There is an instant connection between music students, a base layer of understanding that is there from the very start. Because no matter where you travel or where you came from, you know what it has taken to get you where you are. Hours alone in a practice room, giving up weekends and summer vacations to hone your craft. The borderline OCD-ness of playing things again and again and again until it not only sounds right but _feels_ right too. Every music student shares in some partial insanity that keeps each person in this room striving towards some unattainable perfection, all in the name of music.

Elio plays a round of poker, losing on purpose, then sits on a worn couch, sinking low into the cushions, as he flirts with a petite first-year grad student cellist. If the guy’s furious blush that races across his round cheeks at Elio’s innuendo is anything to go by, he is either straight or hasn’t considered the possibility that he really might not be. He introduces himself as Sam because his Taiwanese name is too difficult to pronounce.

"Try me," Elio says, drunk again and being overly cool. Marzia bites at both her thumb nails through a smirk, enjoying their interaction. Her bare feet rest in Elio's lap and he leans over them, watching Sam’s lips closely as he states his given name, several, complex syllables long. Elio gives it an honest try before realizing, trilingual as he is, he’s totally out of his depth with Asian languages.

"Sam it is, then," he says and Sam laughs loudly, clapping him good naturedly on the knee.

He kisses Marzia when she leaves early, her fingers hooked into his belt loops. It's nothing like the way they'd kissed the night before. More affectionate, more important.

"See you Monday? I’ll show you where that good coffee place is," She says, leaving him to his new people.

Sam follows him back to his apartment and falls asleep on his floor as they listen to the slowest recording of Tchaik 5 2nd movement Elio's ever heard. He leaves Sam there, with a pillow under his head and a blanket over his legs (and a large glass of water for the morning) to retire to his bed, thinking that maybe, with some time, this place could maybe grow on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tchaik 5 2nd movement, means Tchaikovsky 5th Symphony 2nd movement. Celibidache if you're curious.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Oliver's parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you million times over for all the comments, kudos, likes and reblogs. My heart is so full. One day I will respond to each of your lovely notes, I promise!
> 
> And since you're here, take a looksie at the notes at the end of this chapter for some author's notes about this story in general.

_**September 8, 2018, 4;13pm** _   
_**NU Wildcats easily cruise to 2-0 after a near perfect game from QB Sugarman who threw for all the teams points in their home opener against Akron.  Click for game recap. - ESPN.com** _

In the wake of World War I, Oliver’s great-great-grandparents had come to America, fleeing a rapidly destabilizing and anti-semitic Europe. They'd brought with them their eldest son, little more than an infant at the time, who was Oliver’s great-grandfather. That man went on to serve his country during World War II and came home to a victorious America to settle in the same town he’d grown up in.  Oliver’s grandfather was a baby boomer, born nearly a year to the day after V-Day. That boy had grown up to own a barbershop in the small Massachusetts town his forefathers had emigrated to nearly half a century before. He’d earned just enough money to send his own son, Oliver’s father, to college - the first in his family - and then to law school where he’d graduated top of his class.

If his great--great-grandfather had escaped persecution and his -great-grandfather had found a way to survive and his grandfather had found a modicum of success, then Oliver’s father has been the first in the family to thrive, basking in a lifestyle his mother calls “comfortable” but Oliver knows is incredibly privileged.

This explains how Oliver can go from shoulder pads and locker rooms to a custom tailored suit and one of Chicago’s finest steakhouses in less than two hours.

Today’s game had been one of those where everything worked. Every pass felt easy and hit its mark. They’d won easily. The 2nd string quarterback had even taken the final few snaps. Afterwards there had been hearty hugs from the coaching staff. A rousing round of the school fight song in the locker room that was posted to Twitter. And now, after few minutes in front of the mic at the post-game press conference, a shower and a drive in the back of his parent’s rental car, Oliver finds himself seated on lush leather chairs between his mother and girlfriend, a small votive candle burning at the center of a white linen-covered table and the sounds of a live pianist tinkling subtly in the background, eating a steak.

This sort of post-game extravagance has become tradition since about midway through Oliver’s freshman year when it became overly evident that his parents were not going to be casual participants in his college career. They’ve come to every home and Big10 opener each year, waving their purple and white pom-poms proudly. They’ve flown to Florida and Texas and Pasadena for Bowl games, a perfect excuse to go to someplace warm in the middle of winter and cheer on their favorite team. During his sophomore year, when Oliver had been injured, his dad had even flown out for a week to watch the Michigan State game with Oliver as he watched from the couch in his apartment with his foot elevated. They’d lost without him.

His parents are pretty great, really, making sure their only child never lacked for anything. The best equipment, personal trainers, summer long football camps out of state, pulling strings with the corporations his father’s law firm represents to get behind the scene meet and greets with members of the New England Patriots team. His obsession with football was always met with methodical organization on his parents part. While Oliver left it all on the field, his parents were always in search of advice from those in the know on how to make their son the very best because anything less would not be Oliver’s failure, but theirs as parents.

He’s often wondered how they would react if he came out to them. He knows they voted for Obama twice, though he’s pretty sure that had more to do with his stance on Israel than anything else. They would probably be ok with it really. Maybe a little disappointed or worried, and definitely shocked, but he doesn’t think they’d disown him or anything like that. Which maybe only makes it worse that he’s kept it from them for so long.

He’s presented this lie about his sexualtiy to them, too. Living it so convincingly that they who nursed and rocked him as a baby, comforted him as a nervous 1st grader, handled him as a moody teenager in search of his path, had never been given cause for doubt. They know and love their son Oliver as a straight man. Chiara is essentially already a part of the family even if his mother has, on more than one occasion had one too many G&T’s and wondered wistfully, “A good Jewish girl, Ollie, that’s all I ask. Surely there must be at least one at that school of yours?” To tell them otherwise at this point would almost seem cruel.

And regardless of whatever support he’d more than likely have from them, it would do nothing to change the culture of the sport around him. So it’s imperative the facade hold and the people in his life remain blissfully unaware.

Thus the problem with Elio.

Because he, more than anyone alive, knows with an immediacy just how Oliver’s body reacts to a male lover. Physiological, almost chemical. Not only that, but Elio knows the emotional windows that are opened with kind of physical intimacy.

It had taken a great deal of trust to do what he did that night with Elio - giving him his real name, talking about football, allowing himself to be turned on and gotten off, again and again and again. Oliver isn’t sure he’ll ever know why it was Elio he decided to bestow such faith in, out of all the men he’s been with over the years.

But it was more than just the orgasms, plentiful and beautiful as they were. It was the way Elio threaded his fingers through Oliver’s hair after he’d come for him one last time. Kissing his temple and murmuring words in French that Oliver’s blood deprived brain could not even begin to comprehend. All he’d known was that they’d sounded like praise. The way their bodies had fallen together on that simple mattress and Elio had whispered, “Stay,” already half asleep as Oliver had somehow managed to pull himself away from Elio just in time to make it back to the AirBnB. He’d shove his things into a bag and slide into a seat on the bus next to Des with a look that said Please, don’t ask because he still couldn’t comprehend it himself.

He’d been so happy that night. Happy and whole. Wholly Oliver.

And this is why he cannot have Elio in his life. The temptation to feel that way again is way too strong, the draw too addictive.

It’s not ideal having to be reminded several times a week what they experienced together while Oliver tries to listen to his professor talk about the tenants of justice proposed in Plato’s Republic and ignore the icy, wayward glances he feels coming from Elio’s direction. He’d even toyed with the thought of dropping the class but he needs the credit and besides if he can get through this semester, he can’t imagine any reason he would ever see Elio again. A thought that makes him sick just as much as it fills him with relief.

Chiara kisses him on the cheek and Oliver flinches, unprepared for the sweetly feminine touch.

The meal has been cleared away and his father’s platinum AmEx card waits on top of the bill. Oliver doesn’t bother looking at the total, but he’s sure it’s hefty. That bottle of wine alone his parents had shared would probably cover half a month’s rent for a small studio in Evanston.

“I’m just going to use the restroom before we go.” She looks at him for a moment before smiling carefully. She places a hand on his arm. “You ok?” Oliver nods.

“I’ll join you,” his mother says. She sways a bit as she lifts her purse off the back of her chair and follows Chiara, leaving Oliver and his father alone.

He and his father have that typical father/son relationship where certainly topics (sports, school, pop culture) make for easy conversation, but the important discussions remain uncomfortable. Though he’s never doubted his father’s love, he does wonder what it might feel like not to have this awkward veil constantly hung between them.

“So.” His father settles back in his chair with the remnants of his scotch. He smooths his tie across his belly. They’re built similarly, as far as height and width go, but too many hours behind a desk and too many martini lunches have left his father in less than fighting form.

“How have practices been going?”

“Good,” Oliver answers, not terribly interested. He’s starting to feel everyone of those tackles his offensive line had let through today (no sacks, though) and is ready to get home and to his bed.

“And how’s the ankle?”

“My ankle’s been fine since the end of sophomore year, dad.”

His dad meets Oliver’s petulance with a placating lift of his hands, staking claim to his intended innocence. “Southern Illinois should be no problem but then you’ve got a big game after that.”

“They’re all big games this season,” Oliver says, adjusting the rim of his water goblet so it lines up with the corner of his placemat. “Coach will have us ready for the Buckeyes, though.”

“I’m sure he will. What about things with you and Chiara? How is that going?”

Oliver looks up, his brow creasing in the middle.

“Good.” The word is stretched, inflected up at the end, already hinting at Oliver’s confusion. “But what does she have to do with us playing Ohio State in two weeks?”

His father shrugs, a shrewd, narrowed expression on his face. Oliver wonders if this is a similar look to the one he wears when he’s about to destroy a prosecutor’s argument in deposition.

“You two have been together a long time.”

Oliver concedes that point. “Nearly 7 years.”

“You ever think about what will happen after graduation? Come this time next year you could buy her an awfully big ring.”

“Dad!” Oliver is shocked. This is not a turn in conversation he was ready for and it’s completely gauche, besides.

“Well, it’s true. The contract you’ll get in the draft? You’ll make me look like a poor man.” His dad is almost tickled at the thought and Oliver wishes the old man had drunk less tonight. “And I know mom goes on about marrying a Jewish girl, but she likes her, really. And you could do a lot worse than Chiara.”

“I know that,” he snaps, embarrassed and annoyed that this conversation is happening here and now.

“So have you?” He encourages when Oliver refuses to answer. “Talked about it with her? Popping the question?”

Oliver calms himself, clenching then stretching his fingers wide under the table. He won’t make a scene. “Right now, I’m just focusing on the season ahead and finishing school.”

His dad grins, just as Chiara and his mother return. “Good answer, son.”

Later, after his parents have driven the pair of them back to campus and Oliver has said his goodbye’s outside Chiara’s room at the sorority house for the night with a kiss and promise to text first thing in the morning, he walks back to his apartment, hands in his pockets, that expensive suit coat tucked ungratefully through his arm.

This September has felt more like summer than fall and the night remains mild. The twilight sky is a softer, more sleepy hue of the same purplish-greys he sees on his morning runs. The opposing feeling to morning, the exhale after the inhale. He turns his face towards the fading sun as if seeking the last of her heat.

Will he ask Chiara to marry him someday? He supposes that was always part of the master plan. So, since the answer to that question is yes, the question then becomes when? Christmas? After graduation? At the Draft once his name is selected and cameras are rolling nationwide? God, she’d love that kind of spectacle. Or would he wait until after his rookie season when he’s bought his first house and made his first pro-bowl and is a multimillionaire at the age of 25?

They’d have a beautiful wedding, he’s sure, of it. Somewhere on the Cape maybe, near where they grew up. Or maybe here in Chicago, some rooftop, city affair. They’d have beautiful kids, too. And maybe if he lives with this “straight” ploy long enough, he’ll even trick himself into believing what he’s so miraculously been able to convince the rest of the world: that this life would actually make him happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this one is on the shorter side but initially it was supposed to be a part of the previous chapter but then it seemed to make more sense to split them up. Also, I drank too much wine on vacation and was convinced by two people to post early (You know who you are. I blame you and love you.)
> 
> So, several people have asked and yes, I did go to music school. Bachelor and Master's degree in fact! I'm now a professional musician, so it's easy to tap back into my college days for Elio's experiences.
> 
> I also grew up watching professional football with my dad and then went to a Big10 school (not Northwestern) for said music degrees, so I've always been a sports fan. I've never been on a sports team however, so who knows how wide of the mark I'm hitting here.
> 
> Lots of people have asked "who hurt" Elio. All in good time. More hints along the way. You'll find out what happened in Paris Oliver does.
> 
> Also, I've given Oliver the most ridiculous Twitter handle in the next chapter. :)
> 
> Thanks again for all the support!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver talk again...
> 
> Oliver twitter handle. LOL

_**I know we’re only 3 weeks in, but I’m calling it now: look for @NUFBfamily to be playing on Jan 7, 2019. Great TEAM with a great LEADER in QB @OSugarmanSugarush. - @KirkHerbstreit ✓** _

This at least feels like home.

Elio sitting in his father’s office, slumped low in his chair, facing him across his desk. There are half finished mugs of coffee nestled amidst haphazardly placed books, propped open on his desk or on the floor, marking a passage on a page only he knows the significance of. It seems no matter where they go, whether it be in Milan, their summer home in B., or the suburban sprawl of Chicago these things remain constant: his father is both a genius and a complete mess.

“So, how are you finding Dr. Ellison’s class?” His father asks, cradling the back of his head in his clasped fingers. He swivels back and forth in his chair in his chair, a merry arc.

 _Besides the fact that I have to sit across that small-ass table from Oliver, while I fester with resentment, all the while pretending like I doesn’t know exactly how the rounded part of his heel feels pressing against the back of my thigh, you mean?_ Elio thinks.  
  
“She’s fine,” he ends up saying. His father is silent for a moment, letting Elio’s words process.

“She’s a thrice published, award winning author and teacher, and highly sought after Greek translator.”

“Yeah, like, I said she’s fine.” Elio glances up through his lashes to see an amused crinkle develop around his father’s eyes. Elio presses his lips, trying to uphold his air of insolence for a moment longer but cannot help it. His father’s smile is infectious.

The child of older parents, Elio was born into a life already well established, full of travel and art, brilliant friends and even more brilliant thoughts. Instead of hampering their lifestyle, his parents simply let Elio’s little life exist within it. A constant source of joy and entertainment while his father worked away on his computer or at one of their lavish social events, Elio was brought up with a level of freedom, he only learned once he got to school, was unusual. No bedtime or curfew, blase about cursing, exposed to R-rated French films his mother loves with all their nudity and love scenes before Elio even knew what sex was, offered wine well before he was legal even by lax Italian laws.

They hadn’t freaked out, like many parents might have, when he brought a girl home and quietly took her to his room when he was 16. Then, a few months later, brought a boy home and did the very same thing. They’d only asked, without pomp or circumstance one morning over breakfast after a different girl Elio’s age had left in the morning, if he knew where to buy condoms at the _farmacia_.

When he’d answered with sassy, “ _Ovviamente_ ,” they’d let the matter slide.

It wasn’t hedonistic or lazy parenting, simply liberal and egalitarian. Elio’s thoughts and wishes were just as valid as any adults. They’d let him explore the world and all its joys without limitations or prejudgement, flowing along with his passions as they came and went.

He knew they were always there for him with advice but never a command. Everything in his life has been handled with ample physical affection but a gentle touch. They’re close, he and his parents, closer than most. Trusting him to make the right decision and letting him suffer the consequences on his own when he didn’t.  
  
Which had made the goings on in Paris all the more difficult for him to bear. He had so grossly disappointed them.

But what can he say? He was heartbroken.

“I heard from mom the other day,” Elio says delicately.

"Oh?" his father replies, going for casual but ending up with brittle.

"Yeah, she texted the morning they left Barcelona. I think they're headed to the coast next."

"Mmmm, for the Sherry Festival in Jerez, I suspect. She always did like being there in the fall for the uncorking of that year's vintage."

Elio still can’t quite understand his benevolence. A lesser man his father’s age, upon finding out his wife had cheated on him with a younger man for well over a year, would probably have begged her to stay. But his father had possessed enough self-worth, even amidst his desolation, to walk away; Elio respects the hell out of him for that.  
  
The offer for a year-long post overseas had been aptly timed for him. Perhaps he’d been looking, Elio doesn’t know for sure. His suggestion that Elio too might be in need of a fresh start abroad and should come along had been met with total petulance and a firm, slightly drunken “Hell no!” spat into his phone before being dramatically throw across his apartment.

When he’d finally conceded, Elio’s transfer to the US had come with conditions. He’d insisted on his own place. Refused to take any of his dad's classes, even though they would satisfy his degree requirements. He didn’t want a fucking chaperone.

But with time, and the tempering of fiercely felt emotion, Elio has realized it isn’t his father’s fault he’s no longer in Paris. And it’s not his fault his parent’s marriage ended. Elio had just needed time to see that, to take those skills of self-reliance his parents had instilled in him and sort things through for himself. And having him here is actually a wonderful thing and not a burden.

"Maybe we can get dinner sometime next week," Elio suggests as he stands, gathering up his things. He has class across campus shortly and will have time to do some composing if he hurries. He'd woken up with this chord progression in his head, jazz-influenced and brooding.

"A place in the city, perhaps?" his father suggests.

"Anywhere you like."

His father raps the rounded arms of the chair with both his palms, decision made. Some father son/bonding could be just what they both need, Elio thinks as he opens the door onto a waiting Oliver.

“Hi,” he says, dumbly. His broad shoulders take up nearly the entire width of the door frame.

“Hello,” Elio says, overly polite for his father’s sake. He crowds in behind Elio, nearly crowing when he sees who is waiting.

  
“Oliver! Congratulations on your win this weekend!”

Oliver flits his eyes over Elio’s shoulder for a moment. “Thanks, professor.”

“How many points did you put up against Southern Illinois?”

“42. But they’re a Division II school. It should have been more.”

“Still, no small feat. 3 and 0, right?” Oliver gives him a tight little nod. “No better start than that”

His father glances between them, his smile slipping slightly as he takes note that neither Elio or Oliver have moved from their impasse in the doorway. They haven't really stopped staring either, paralized by this face to face weirdness.

It’s not like Elio hasn’t been seeing Oliver M-W-F from 11:15-12:05 for the last three weeks. Usually he’ll come rushing into class, late, apologizing. He’ll take the chair closest to the the door and farthest from Elio, barely commenting on anything and hurrying out the door as soon as class is through. He couldn’t really be more obvious.

They’d bumped into each other once in the bathroom after class the week previous and upon seeing Elio washing his hands (like, his cock hadn’t even been out for fucks sake) Oliver had taken one look at him and backed right back out the door.

“Are you 12?” Elio had yelled throwing his wadded up paper towel at the swinging door.

But this feels like the first time Oliver has actually looked him in the eye since the first day of class and Elio has forgotten how potent Oliver of undivided attention can feel.  
  
“Do you two know each other?” his father asks, a subtlety to his voice that hints at a deeper suspicion.

“We're in the Plato seminar together,” Elio answers sharply and Oliver nods.

“Ah, wonderful. I was just singing Dr. Ellison’s praises to a rather tepid Elio. What do you think of her?”

“She’s great. One of the best at the whole university, I think.”

His father makes a noise at the back of his throat as if to say, _Told you so_. Elio does not hold back his eye roll.

“You ready for our meeting, then?”

Elio snaps a look back and forth between Oliver and his father, as if betrayed. Then it clicks. His father is Oliver’s advisor? His head rolls back on his shoulders with an internal groan. Of course he fucking is.

With a sheepish look to the floor, his hand clenched tight around the single strap that keeps his bag slung on his back, Oliver steps out of the way, making room for Elio to pass. But then Mr. Perlman’s phone rings. He pulls the phone out of his pocket holding it away from his face and pulling his glasses down off his head to squint at the number. Elio snickers. Old man.

“Can you spare me 5 minutes, Oliver?” He asks as the ringtone continues to play loudly. “It’s a call from Italy I’ve been needing to take.”

“Of course,” Oliver replies.

“5 minutes,” he repeats showing the number with his hand too. That hand lands on Elio’s shoulder then cups his face with an affectionate, almost pinch.

“See ya, pops,” Elio says.

“Ciao, Elli.” He says as he swpies his thumb across the screen to answer. “Francesco! Come va?”

His father’s voice fades his he shuts the door behind him and Elio lifts his backpack over his shoulder.

“Professor Perlman is your dad?”

Elio turns, making sure Oliver is aware how much on an inconvenience this is to him. Oliver’s eyes are wide, as if he’s accidentally bumped into a celeb at the grocery store.

“Elio Perlman, Sammuel Perlman. Fruit of loins, apple of eye.” He gestures from himself to the door, respectively with each statement.

“I... I didn’t know your last name.”

Elio tsks with faux empathy. “I know. It must be so confusing for you, out in the real world, where we don’t walk around with our names stitched to back of our shirts like you’re used to.”

He’d meant for it to sound obnoxious, but as he speaks he realizes the words are coming out with none of the bitchiness he’d intended and instead of pissing Oliver off, it makes him smile.

That soft curl of Oliver’s lips totally disarms him and his cheeks flush instantly. He likes Oliver happy. And it’s unfair that he can make him so without really even trying.

“This is wild.” Oliver is still smiling. “Professor Perlman is a serious idol of mine. His books are fantastic.”

“The plot continues to thicken, huh?” Elio raises one eyebrow, the most he’s willing to insinuate at the verboten “them” problem and Oliver nods, rueful.

“Is he why you’re here? I mean, did you come to Northwestern cause he did?”

“Kind of?” Elio bites at his lips for a second. “I...needed to leave my old school. It was best for everyone. So when he got offered this position for the year, it seemed to make sense.”

“Why did you have to leave?” Then almost right away. “Sorry, if that’s too personal.”

This is such bullshit. Oliver can’t stand there looking hot as fuck, with his easy hair and his grey hoodie with the NU seal over his left pec and shorts showing off those gorgeous legs, and ask questions about Elio’s past like he actually cares.

“Well it is. Personal. So why the fuck are _you_ asking?”

“I was just…”

“You’re just…What?” He turns his head as if offering his ear to listen to Oliver’s lame excuse. But Oliver is lost, set back on the other foot again by Elio’s turn in tone.

The hallway is empty. Behind his door, his father speaks boisterously in Italian. Elio checks once more over his shoulder to ensure they are alone because he might be raging but he’s not an asshole. He turns in towards Oliver, speaking rash and quiet.

“Just because you know what my cum tastes like, doesn’t mean you have to be nice to me. We aren’t friends, Oliver. You said you wanted nothing to do with me,” he spits. “So do nothing.”

Oliver goes terribly pale, looking at Elio with a completely new kind of gutpunching stare.

His father opens his door, phone still in his hand and surveys the situation. “Everything ok boys?”

“Fine,” Oliver replies, but Elio knows he’s not answering him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So regarding Anella. The idea came from a convo I had about a hint at the end of the book where a friend thinks it's inferred they got divorced. I also needed a reason just the boys came to the US. And I killed Sammy in my last one so...fairs fair!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Thursday Thursday and there's a party at Hillel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU for all your comments and kudos. I have read and adored every single one. I promise someday to reply...xx

Thursday, September 17, 2018  
**_Having sailed through their non-conference schedule, Northwestern sets their sights on Saturday’s Big10 season opener showdown against fellow Big10 and BCS Championship hopefuls Ohio State. -AP_**

At first is was singing. Singing while playing with blocks. Singing while coloring. Singing at the dinner table. Singing, singing, always singing. Little songs learned at his _Reggio Emilia_ preschool or melodies from parents CD collections. Snippets of tunes he made up himself, sung in his sweet, boyish soprano. A voice so pure and an ear to match, it was often suggested he join the boys choir at the cathedral, which always made for an awkward conversation.

By the age of 6, it was violin at Elio’s insistence. But by age 7 he was done with the fussy posture and slow pace of progress, because of course his parents never forced him to practice.

He loved the immediacy of piano. Two lessons in and already he was playing melodies. He would sit for hours plunking at the keys, not necessarily practicing, which would result in much hand flapping and stern looks from his teacher the following week, but simply enjoying the sounds the piano could create, colors and moods just from 88-keys.

It wasn’t until he was 14 that he realized he could put all this exploration down on paper. Two staves, five lines, note heads etched in pencil. He realized he could follow a melody through from start to finish, change it, bring it home. _Compose_.

Getting admitted into the Paris Conservatoire was one of the proudest moments of his life. The legacy of composers who have studied at that school is richer than perhaps any other school in the world, besides St. Petersburg. He often wonders if leaving, and not really by choice, will be one of the biggest regrets of his life.

Even as a composition major, Elio is expected to have a high proficiency at his instrument. After all, until you’re established, who the hell else is going to play your compositions if not you? Between coursework at the Music School and university required courses that he’s woefully behind on, Elio’s days are stacked full, so late night practice sessions are a must.

As are nighttime caffeine runs.

“Usual?” Sam asks. Elio nods and clasps his hands above his head, cracking his back. Sam and Marzia get in line.  She tucks her arm through his as they wait.

The three of them are almost a package deal now, already only a few weeks into the semester.  Both Marzia and Sam hitched on their affection for Elio quickly, but it then jumped circuit and linked them pair of them together, too. They’re like a 3 atom molecule with equals bonds.  At least that’s what Sam had said the other night, stoned on Marzia’s couch.  Elio doesn’t do the hard sciences.

Elio wanders through the student union, letting his mind rest from his work. He’s been practicing for lessons and working on a new piece tonight. This break will do him good.

He wanders over towards the community board posting for yoga classes and visiting lectures. There’s a very serious looking poster asking “When is stress ANXIETY?” and, as they're right by the music school, posters for upcoming student recitals.

But in the lower corner, it’s edges covered by other signs is a high-gloss, full-sized picture of Oliver. The white Northwestern University lettering printed across the promotes this seasons football schedule.

Elio stares at the picture, sighing heavily. You’d think on a campus with over 20,000 students it would be easy enough to avoid 1 guy. But not when it’s football season and he’s the star player.

Oliver in full football uniform, tight white pants, dark purple jersey with the #24 on the front. His blue eyes stick out even more than usual, thanks to PhotoShop, under a white-strapped helmet. His hand is cocked back over his shoulder, fingers curled around a ball expertly, ready to pass.

Elio knows those fingers, those biceps, the arch of that neck. Even after just one night together, one month gone, he can still feel those parts of Oliver on his skin late at night, between his sheets, like a ghost come to revisit him in the night.

It’s strange to finally see Oliver in that role. Elio has known what Oliver would look like all geared-up, in theory. But seeing him, his face plastered across campus for marketing purposes. It makes it all the more real that Oliver really does have this other persona, this other life.

It’s not just about a game, is it? It’s a whole complex machine and one with a lot of money and expectation behind it and Oliver at the very center. It’s not empathy or sympathy that settles over Elio. Maybe just a bit of understanding.

“We should go to a game sometime,” Sam says as he comes up behind him and hands Elio his half-caff, single-pump, hazelnut, skim latte with no foam.

“They’re pretty fun, actually,” Marzia says, sipping her chai tea. “I was in the marching band freshman year.”

“You were what?” Elio asks, face pinched with disgust. She might as well have told him she likes to eat slugs.

She shrugs like it isn’t a big deal.

“Isn’t that what you do at schools like this? Go cheer for your alma mater?” Sam asks. Having gone to Oberlin Conservatory for undergrad and a very strict, all-boys school before in Taiwan where the closest thing to a school sport was military drills first thing in the morning, the idea of a big-time school sports for fun is a new one for Sam. And much like everything else, Elio has learned, he embraces all new experience with open arms.

But Elio looks at them both like they’ve grown antlers. He turns crisply, totally done. “I’m going to practice.”

He’s pretty sure he hears Sam and Marzia share a giggle at his expense as he walks away.

Three hours later, all having reached that point of exhaustion or frustration where further practice was no longer be productive, Elio is doing much better with beer number three in his hand and numbers one and two already making their way through his blood stream. Thirsty Thursday, it’s a thing and he likes it.

The windows in his apartment are open, a gentle wind coming through. September is basically still summer these days (thanks global warming) and yet there is a sense though that days like these are dwindling, both those where they are all still young and carefree and those before cooler weather comes, fall, then the brutal lake-effect winter.

Neither Sam nor Marzia are ready to stay in for the night. She goes through her phone, checking texts and Instagram, looking for something fun to do.

“My roommate is at some mixer,” she says, eyes still on the glowing screen.

“Where?” Elio asks, lazy. He’s quite content on his couch and does not plan to move for something lame.

“At Hillel. I think that guy she likes it there.”

“Is that the Jewish frat?” Sam asks.

  
“No, it’s not a fraternity. It’s a nationwide community organization that promotes commitment to Jewish life and learning.”

Elio grimaces, wondering how the hell he knew that.

His family was never big on religion. More cultural than actually practicing Jews. They didn’t keep kosher, never really went to synagogue aside for the big holidays. Elio never even bar mitzvahed, thought he still knows plenty of prayers in Hebrew by heart. They took as much inspiration from secular humanists and poets and philosophers as they did from the Torah. Elio was brought up to believe you didn’t need religion to help you dictate what is right and wrong, just your own humanity.

“You’re Jewish, right, Elio?” Sam asks.

“Yes,” he says slowly with a curious cock to his head. “Why do you need to have one of God’s chosen people to get through the door, or...?”

“No, of course not!” Marzia throws a pillow at him. “It’s just a party. Someone snuck a keg in the back and it’s literally, like, two blocks away.”

Elio tosses his head back on the couch, feeling the expectant looks from Sam and Marzia on him. They could, in theory, go without him. But that would only happen if they weren’t so damned co-dependant on each other.

“Alright, fine. But if anyone tries to recruit to me join something, I’m leaving.”

Of course, the minute they arrive, Marzia flies off to be with her roommate. Sam gets them both beers but then disappears too, leaving Elio in a room full of people he doesn't know. Traitors, the both of them.

What clearly had started as an info session (the pamphlets are proof to that and Elio takes one so he can prove the threat he'd been under later to Sam and Marzia) has dissolved into a regular college party. The main meeting room, just past the reception area where a secretary for the organization must sit during the day and through a set of double doors, is where the majority of partiers have gathered. The lights are dimmed. Someone has brought in a pair of speakers and a small set of LED disco lights that swirl around the room in a range of rainbow colors.

It’s a rather sad seeming affair, clearly thrown together last minute. Regardless now that alcohol is involved, people dancing and talking and it doesn’t feel all that different from other parties Elio has been to.

Elio finishes his beer and then gets a cup of dangerous looking red punch that nearly burns his tongue with its artificial sweetness.

He doesn’t know anyone here besides Sam and Marzia and he’s in no mood for making friends. He was most certainly happier on his couch and is thinking about leaving when he sees him.

Oliver, standing alone across the darkened room propped up against the wall with his arms crossed. There can be no mistaking him. His body is too large, his jaw too angled, his eyes too gentle. He watches the party around him with a similar disinterest to Elio.

Elio’s brain is suddenly very swimmy. (Christ, what it’s in that punch?) And the only thought it seems capable of forming is, _I’ve had him._ And damn all the subplot, he wants him again.

He only realizes he’s staring when Oliver starts staring back. Not hiding like he has tried to during their class, not turning tail like he had that day in the bathroom, not averting his gaze towards the floor, stricken, like he had after Elio’s epic fuck you the other day.

It’s bold. Unflinching. The kind of lingering eye contact you can’t just walk away from.

Elio takes another drink, one final rush of liquid courage, and walks to him.

*  
A wave of exhilaration passes through Oliver as Elio walks over. His reptilian brain screams _Danger! Danger!_ while the rest just watches with great appreciation, the ease of his long-legged gait, white Converse-covered feet slightly turned out like a dancer’s and just a poised.

“Perlman,” Oliver says like it’s an explanation for why Elio is here, the answer to the world’s most obvious question.

Of course Elio would end up here. Because it’s once again completely preposterous that they’re in the same place at the same time.  Fate seems pretty damned determined to continue to thrust them together. If this is a test, Oliver feels like he’s failing. If this is a game then Universe: 1 - Oliver: nil.

“Sugarman.” Elio’s iteration of his name sounds much more like a greeting, if not a cautious one. “Kinda like a bad penny, huh?”

“Not sure who exactly is meant to be the penny in this scenario, but yeah, kinda.”

He watches as Elio settles against the wall, leaving ample room between them. He lifts the hand that isn’t holding his drink and tucks it at the small of his back, his hips jutting forward for a flash of a second. There is something supple and pacifying about that single motion. Like a young male lion rolling onto his back for the alpha male, indicating he means to harm and doesn’t want to fight.

Oliver’s heart skips a beat over a docile Elio.

But there is a sluggish character to the way Elio watches the room around him too, a slackness to his limbs. And that’s when Oliver gets it: he’s not being acquiescent or apologetic, he’s just drunk. Or at least, well on his way to being so.

“Didn’t think this was really your type of thing,” Oliver says.

“No, it’s really not,” Elio says with an emphatic shake to his head. His curls spring back into place when he’s done. “My friend, Marzia...her roommate’s here. I don’t know...there’s some guy she likes, I guess. Didn’t think this would be your sort of thing either.”

“Well, seeing as I’m pretty much _the_ most high profile Jewish guy on campus, the student exec. committee for Hillel is always asking me to make an appearance.”

“So you thought you’d grace the mere mortals around you with your presence tonight?”

“I’m not…” He begins, then stops, realizing Elio is just making fun. Their eyes fall away from each other at the same time, smiles catching only when they can’t be seen any more. If Oliver didn’t know better, he’d call the looks they are sharing furtive.

“We leave tomorrow for a road game,” He says, suddenly aware how solid and bottom heavy his voice can sound when he’s trying not to reveal too much. “Coach let us out early from practice. He’s been riding us pretty hard all week so I figured, why not come? Unwind. I think Alpha Epsilon Pi wants to make me an honorary brother or something.”

“Oh, shit,” Elio groans sympathetically.

“I know crazy, right? I mean, if I’m going to join a frat, I at least want the experience of being hazed.”

Elio laughs, but only briefly. His lips quickly cover his teeth again and his face smoothes as if he’s just remembered that sort of behavior isn’t allowed in Oliver’s presence. They hadn’t noticed the subtle way their bodies have drifted together, just a drop of Oliver’s shoulder to better hear Elio, a shift of Elio’s feet on the carpet to angle more towards Oliver, until Elio rights himself, putting that more respectable distance between them once more.

Oliver can’t blame him for being standoffish. Doesn’t really even blame him for what that dramatic show the other day outside Professor Perlman’s - _Elio dad’s_ -office. How can he when Oliver’s the one insisting on all this pretense? Would it matter if he told Elio how much he hates it? That he’s imagined, when he’s running in the morning or when they’re sitting in class together pretending not to be keenly aware of exactly what the other one is doing, all the different realities where the two of them are friends. More than.

They keep finding themselves back at this precipice, both ready, almost eager, to slip a tentative toe into the pool of friendship before one or both of them flails back from the icy edge, remembering how much the frozen water has chilled them deep.

It’s exhausting, really, when all Oliver really wants is to give in. He likes Elio and his prickly exterior that gives way to those glimpses of softness. The softness that he saw in bed with him.  What he wouldn’t give to separate himself again from his life here like he had in Rome and have another night with Elio. To hear Elio say their night together had meant something to him too.

“I need a refill,” Elio says. “You?”

Oliver lifts his empty hands. “I can’t drink during the season.”

“At all?” Elio sounds incredulous. “Well, that sucks.”

“Don’t worry, I make up for it in the spring and summer.”

He hadn’t exactly been sober their night together, at least at the start. By the end though, his mind had been crystal clear and full.

Elio swirls what is left of his drink in his cup, dregs mostly of the kool-aid they used to make the jungle juice. He presses his lips together, releasing them with a pronounced pop. “Can you do other stuff?”

“If I can’t drink I obviously can’t do drugs. I’d get kicked off the teams and besides, that shit is terrifying.”

“I don’t mean drugs.” He lolls his head to the side, locking eyes not _with_ but _on_  Oliver. They are honeyed and unmistakable in their insinuation, even in the low light.

“I mean, can you fuck?”

The sound of his f is crass. The k, positively vulgar. Oliver wilts before he answers, face flushed.

“Of course I can,” he says, almost aggressive, like he has something to prove.

Elio’s eyelids hover low for a moment. “Then what the hell are we doing standing here?”

It feels like the room around them has gone silent and still. The only sound left is Oliver heart pounding in his ears. The only movement, the flicker of that cheap strobe light of the pronounced angles of Elio’s face.

“I thought we weren’t going to try to be friends?”

“We’re not,” Elio says with complete indifference, void of everything but facts. “But this has nothing to do with being friends. This is just about getting off.”

Oliver doesn’t say a word. He can’t. He wants to ask Elio what the hell he’s thinking for suggesting something like this in a public place. He wants to grab Elio by the scruff of his neck, catching those curls between his knuckles, pull his head back and make him make good on his offer.

What he does instead is walk away, not even bothering to look over his shoulder.

Because he knows, beyond a shadow of doubt, that Elio will follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yes! There will be sexy times next chapter.
> 
> I play viola/violin and yes...super fussy. :)
> 
> Also, I'm pretty sure they'd never actually have a kegger at Hillel, but work with me here people.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You get a trope and you get a trope!
> 
> Have I said how much fun this fic is?
> 
> Also - a million thanks for the comments!!! Seriously. Each one makes my day!! xx

  
It’s only once he hits the stairwell that he hears Elio’s footsteps behind him. He’s close, following at an unassuming distance. Anyone who might see them would think nothing of the two of them walking away. If only they knew the thoughts racing through Oliver’s mind.

He cannot comprehend his life choices right now. This is beyond reckless. But maybe that’s why it feels so good. A heady mix of nervous anticipation and foolhardy impulsiveness settles in his gut, and lower, that creates a feeling not unlike their first night together when Oliver had walked through the streets of Rome and gone to him. He feels a little drunk, though he hasn’t touched a drop.

He glances back at Elio, his narrow fingers trailing along the metal raining of the stairs, his head bowed to create a halo of curls on the crown of his head.

Upon reaching the second floor landing, Oliver turns and uses his hips to depress the crossbar on the fire-safe door. He backs up, opening the way for Elio. And even though there is plenty of space for him to pass, Elio crowds in close to Oliver. He uses his whole body to tease, thighs brushing thighs, a passing, tempting glance. The drag of the denim of Elio’s fly over Oliver’s lap. His eyes are dark as he looks long at Oliver. His tongue clicks softly on the roof of his mouth before it rolls between his teeth just past his lips as if at the ready.

Oliver is lucky to have the door behind him so he can stay upright.

The second floor hallway is dark, illuminated only by the red EXIT sign at the end of the hall. The classroom they find is darker.

It could be any small conference room, in any number of buildings across campus. There is a thrill wondering what sacred texts might have been read and discussed here or what boring planning meetings have dragged on for too long in this space. And now Oliver plans on pushing Elio into the darkest corner and getting his hands all over him.

“How romantic.”

Oliver can just make out the shadowy outline of Elio as he spins in the center of the room, taking it in.

“Getting off right? Last time I checked, you don’t need much romance for that.” Oliver pulls his belt lose from his buckle. At the sound of the metallic clink, Oliver hears a snide snicker from Elio’s direction and can imagine the wry grin he must be wearing.

With blind luck, Oliver reaches into the shadows, connecting with Elio’s wrist. Elio allows Oliver to pull him flush to his body just long enough for the heat of Elio’s body to register, for the hand not still holding sure to his arm to squeeze his hip before using that angle to spin him around and back, an unprepared puff of air escaping Elio’s lips as his shoulders hit the wall.

Oliver looms large over Elio’s so much slighter frame. This is such a wanted shift in control from their first time together and from the sound of Elio’s already ragged breath passing his ear, Oliver is sure Elio likes it. Oliver brackets his arms around Elio’s face and kisses him, rough, sinking his whole body weight into Elio and hiding nothing.

“I knew it,” Elio mutters, smug, as he bucks his hips, creating room to get his hands between them to undo Oliver’s fly. “I knew you’d already be hard for me.”

“Shut up,” Oliver says, yanking that power Elio had just tried to regain right back. They both work to shift Oliver’s jeans lower on his hips.

“Gladly.”

Elio slips his hand over Oliver’s cock as he kisses into his mouth in one silky movement. Oliver feels his limbs go weak, trying his best to concentrate on the zipper of Elio’s fly even as he loses blood from his brain from the rapid, almost blistering, feel of Elio’s palm around him.

What he wouldn't give to be with someone who he could share this with all the time - these impromptu rendezvous that make him burn. He remembers stories Des has told him about the girls he’s dated. Blow jobs under his sheets while he tries to keep his voice even on the phone, fucking in the bathroom at parties because they’d can’t wait to get back to a bed, waking up in the middle of the night to her grinding against him, wet and ready.

What must it be like to not only want your partner but crave them? To hunger for them all the time? And to never have to worry about being totally sated, because you know there is always more on offer? Will Oliver ever know this feeling? Sporadic evenings, stollen hours, one and done - that is all life has ever afforded him.

And it’s with the realization that Elio is the only man who has ever touched him twice, Oliver comes in Elio’s hand with a muted cry. It’s high and vulnerable but he can’t help himself.

“God, you’re pretty when you do that.” Elio mouths his neck below his ear, easing him through the come down. He’d done that in Rome, too, cared for Oliver after the fact.

“You can’t even see me,” Oliver pants, his hand still working Elio’s length. He loves the way he can feel him getting hotter, harder - Elio’s cock and Oliver’s hand the same ignited flesh.

“No, but I can remember.” The words, whispered against Oliver’s ear, turn into a throaty groan as Oliver feels hot wetness begin to coat his hand. He kisses Elio again, their tongues fat and deep. Elio shudders, totally spent.

“Oliver, do you…”

They both go horribly still at the sound of fellow party goers laughing out in the hallway. Oliver lifts his clean hand to cover Elio’s mouth, his other hand still down his pants, wrapped around his twitching cocks, just spent. Oliver’s heart beats like he’s just run a 100m dash at full speed.

The voices fade as quickly as they had appeared. Innocent chatter, muttered words Oliver can’t even make out, totally oblivious to the clinch Elio and Oliver are currently in.

That was so close.

_“Fuck.”_

Oliver yanks himself away, pulling his pants back up over his ass.

“Fuck!” He curses again, meeting the emphatic yell with a flick of his semen covered hand, as if suddenly disgusted by the proof of what remains, not caring where it winds up and where it will remain.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he continues. He’s started shaking.

But behind him, Elio has started laughing. Large, unruly, grotesque guffaws.

Oliver stares at him, quite unable to believe Elio’s reaction.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Elio is laughing so hard he’s stopped making noise, doubled at the waist. “I was just thinking,” he gasps, trying to catch his breath. “We wouldn’t have exactly have been caught red handed, would we?” He lifts his hand where Oliver’s spunk still cools between his fingers. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Elio gasps, but it lacks any sincerity.

Oliver feels like such a supreme idiot for entrusting Elio with this encounter. It was a risk of monumental proportions and for what? Some piddly handjob? Has he been wrong about Elio from the get go? Had those quiet moments in bed together been an act? Has he been seeing things, moments of connection, that just simply aren’t there? Is that brash, cocky exterior all that there is to Elio while every moment of sweetness and flirtation has only been a means to get back into his pants? Is there truly no sympathetic heart within Elio at all?

“Fuck you,” Oliver says harshly, more dismayed with himself than anything else.

“Oliver, come on,” he pleads, as if willing Oliver to find the amusement in this situation. When it becomes very clear that there is no way in hell Oliver will, Elio scoffs with a shake of his head. He wipes his hand on the outside of his boxers then does up his jeans. “You know, you were a lot less uptight in Rome.”

“No one was ever supposed to know who I was in Rome.”

“And nobody knows we were in here. Lighten up. Christ.” He walks past Oliver with a shift of his shoulders like he’s just going to leave but Oliver grabs his bicep.

“You really don’t get it do you?” He needs Elio to understand. Even if Elio doesn’t gives two shits, never has and never will, Oliver needs him at least to understand why he has to be like this.. “Any thing - even a whisper of something like this would ruin me. My whole life, everything I’ve worked for...”

“I know that, ok?” Elio snaps, yanking his arm away.

Oliver’s eyes have adjusted enough that he can make out the look on Elio’s face and it’s not callous or flippant but bewildered. Twisted with something very much like sadness. When Elio speaks again it lacks any brittle edge. Oliver would almost find it soothing if he dared listen.

“Look, you’re fine, ok? They didn’t see us. No way they even knew anyone was in here. And if by some impossibility of physics they were able to see through that sliver of a window,” he points at the door. “To that nearly pitch black corner.” He points to where Oliver had a had him pressed against the wall on the same side of the room. “And they happened to be using high tech night vision goggles and were somehow able recognize it was you, then they probably thought you were hooking up with some girl with a cute haircut.” Oliver stares blankly. “The curls come in handy.”

He tosses them for effect and Oliver, though he doesn’t quite smile, does release a puff of air and he feels his pulse begin to even out.

“There was a bathroom on the right just as we came up the stairs. You go in there. Clean yourself up. Go home. I’ll wait in here a while, text my friends to tell them that I left ages ago, then leave out the back.”

It’s like Elio has flicked the switch again, from spiky to soft. It would be so much easier if he were just one or the other: friend or foe.

“Why are you being nice to me?”

“I don’t know,” Elio says. He then plasters a smile on his face that is obscenely fake. “Last time, I promise.”

Elio sinks to one of the folding plastic chairs, rubbing at his eyes. “Go,” he nearly shouts with an emphatic wave towards the door.

So Oliver does.

*  
**_In a statement win, Northwestern Wildcats spoil the Buckeye’s #collegegameday festivities and possible #bcschampionship hopes breaking the late game tie with a 4th quarter field goal. - @collegegameday ✔_**

Night bus rides home are so much better after a win, especially a big one like this.

The rest of the Big10 conference loves to hate Ohio State and Oliver and the rest of his team is no different. The crowd had been ravenous for a win at the Horseshoe in Columbus, many of whom had gotten up early to be there for the live filming of College Gameday on ESPN.  He had been happy to play the spoiler.

His defence had ended up with an interception on OSU’s first possession and Oliver had used the resulting short field to score the first points of the game, running the 1st and goal snap across the goal line himself. Even though OSU fought hard, tying things up in the 3rd quarter, the control of the game had changed after that first drive and the Wildcats never really gave it back.

The omens for the rest of the season after this win are ridiculously good.

Oliver is one of the last on the bus. The engines of the fleet of Northwestern University buses have been idling outside the stadium almost since the game ended, so the whole cabin smells a bit of gasoline and hot steel. He high-fives buddies and teammates as they settle in for the 5 hour trip and Oliver makes his way towards the back of the bus, where Des has (because he always has, ever since Pop Warner league games in middle school) saved him a seat.

“You seen it, yet?” Des asks before Oliver has even had a chance to stuff his bag in the overhead bin. “It’s a doozy this time. I think she’s really stepping up her game this season.”

Oliver groans slightly as he sinks down into the seat next to him. “Alright, lay it on me.”

Des already has his phone out, the screen glowing blue-white in the lowered lights of the bus. He hands it over.

It’s Chiara’s instagram.

More specifically, about 20 IG stories chronicling her evening spent watching the game on the massive TV in the Delta Delta Delta sorority house living room.

There are heavily tagged selfies with the cadre of sisters there to watch too, all dressed in various shades of purple and white, Chiara always front and center with an excessively excited smile on her face. There are boomerang videos of them cheering after the first touchdown, a shot of the television screen itself when the camera had panned to Oliver resting between plays on the sidelines. He’s sweating and clearly trying to catch his breath but she’s written _#hubbahubba_ across his face. Then another boomerang video of them toasting the win with shots.

Oliver sighs and Des looks on with a droll, _I’m his best friend and have been putting up with this shit for years_ smile on his face as Oliver keeps watching.

She does this every game. Extensive, overly excited social media content that have almost nothing to do with the actual sport. He knows most of her followers are there to get info on him, but she is always happy to play it up and work it to her advantage. What girl wouldn’t like the attention?

The penultimate story scrolls past, a picture of the two of them from last spring’s Greek Life Formal. There are a series of praise hand emojis with _#blessed_ and _#soproud_ written over the top. Then the last story finally rolls into view the it’s the same picture but now with the added words, in glowing neon font: _You want your own varsity co-ed? Pledge Tri Delt cause the best sisters get the best misters._

“Nice plug, huh?” Des says, dryly.

“Well, it is fall rush season,” he says, in rather weak defense of his girlfriend.

Des hums, unconvinced, as the bus pulls away. They turn in silence to their phones like the two millennial boys they are.

Coach always takes his phone away about two hours before the start of the game, "For focus."  So his notifications bar is packed. Several texts from Chiara mostly consisting of heart-eyes and exclamation points. Two from his parents, supportive and in complete sentences. There are tons of IG likes on the stuff Chiara has tagged him in and about three hundred twitter notifications. Too many to go through each one, but a few stick out, especially the ones from before, talking trash and predicting his downfall. He likes those best of all on a win day but never goes so far as to deign them a reply.

Chiara is waiting for him, fast asleep on his couch, when he rolls in around 3am. She’s curled on her side wearing one of his tee-shirts, her knees tucked into the over-sized hem. He crouches down beside her, his quads complaining a bit as he does. If he wanted, he could lift her up and easily carry her to his bed.

Instead, he simply says, “Chiara.” She doesn’t react. “Babe.” Slightly louder.

Her nose crinkles before she opens her eyes, smiling when she sees Oliver. “I tried to stay up.”

“It’s ok. Let’s get you in bed.”

She nods, picking herself up of the couch with a quick stretch. She’s asleep again on the far edge of his king sized bed by the time he’s brushed his teeth. He slides into bed next to her, brushing a lock of her hair that has fallen across her face out of the way. Her freckles have started fading, the summer once evident on her skin slipping away. His heart takes note.

Who is he to complain about this kind of tireless support? Ok, maybe it’s a little much sometimes (none of the other guys’ girls put on this kind of act) but Oliver is sure it comes from a place of love. He should feel lucky to have a girlfriend like Chiara. He shouldn’t feel trapped or incomplete. Half the team would kill for even one night lying in bed next to her like he is now.

So what that her bottomless well of peppiness sometimes wears him out? So what that the curves of her small body, that seek him the second he slips into bed, do next to nothing rouse his libido? She’s here, warm and safe and predictable in a way Elio would never be as a partner.

Oliver pushes himself away from Chiara and halfway across the sateen sheets, suddenly terrorized by his own thoughts. His subconscious had inserted Elio into bed between with a fluidity he was not prepared for. And where did this idea of _dating_ Elio come from, anyway?

 _It was sex_ , he tells himself. Pure and simple. Once for fun and once by mistake. _Over_.

He swallows, letting his pulse return to a normal rate and forces all thoughts of Elio from his head - the way his lips had felt at the hinge of his jaw, the heaviness of his limbs that had nothing to with his drunkenness as he’d sunk to that chair and begged Oliver to just go.

Carefully, he makes his way back across the mattress and flips his pillow over to the cool side. He tucks his head against Chiara’s neck, thinking that she smells of vanilla and falls asleep.

They sleep in late, go get bagels at the fancy place far from campus that is more full of hipster couples with babies in ergonomic strollers than hungover college students.

After, they settle in with some work back on Oliver’s couch while the the Patriots game plays in the background. Chiara seems to be more into her phone than her books, though. Oliver pulls out some reading for his Plato seminar, then thinks better of it.

Sometime in the second half, with the Pats up on the Jets by a comfortable margin, Chiara climbs into his lap, covering his neck with kisses.

“Do you like this?” she asks as her small but nimble hands find the outline of his semi through the slick fabric of his track pants.

“Mmhmm,” he murmurs, willing his dick just for once to get as hard for her as he knows it can for others. “Like this better, though,” He says, flipping her onto her back and pulling her pants off. She giggles and he lets her rub herself off against the pads of his forefingers. He’s pretty sure she comes, but he can’t never quite tell. When she asks to return the favor, he says watching her had been pleasure enough.

Elio is the last one to class on Monday morning, wearing an expression of total ire. And instead of turning his eyes the opposite direction from Oliver like he usually does, Elio makes sure to meet Oliver’s gaze, proving just how seriously he’s taking his pledge to not make nice anymore.

Oliver feels himself blush though, because even though the look is full of ice, the intensity of it is also hot as hell.

Their professor begins her lecture on Plato’s Symposium, perhaps his most famous dialogues.

“We’ll be doing presentations in class next Friday on each speech. And since this bit of dialogue centers around the various iterations of _love_ ,” she swoops her voice in and around the word, batting her eyes and the class, save Oliver and Elio titter. “We of course will be doing this project in pairs.”

She begins to partner people off and it’s clear enough by the mid-point that the universe hates well and truly hates them both as she pairs Oliver up with Elio and assigns them Aristophanes. Romantic love. _Of fucking course._

Oliver watches as Elio drops his face into his hand and slumps lower in his seat with an audible groan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little homage to Stuart Scott if you squint. (Bonus points if you know who that is. Double bonus if you know is Alma Mater!)
> 
> Heads up! We're coming up on the busiest month of my whole year. I will definitely try to keep writing and will keep you all posted of progress BUT I also appreciate you patience as work takes center stage until he end of August.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr for updates!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio has a birthday then needs to apologize to Oliver for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have no idea how much I adore each and every one of you who is reading this. xx Your comments are so special to me.
> 
> I'll post more about what's going on on tumblr about it, but seriously - it brings me so much joy in a time when I really need the boost!

_**Thursday, October 4, 2018** _  
_**Once the pride of Piscataway, Rutgers all but rolls over for Northwestern. Will the Scarlet Knights ever find their place among the Big10 greats, or will they forever remain bottom on the league? - New Jersey News 12** _

Oliver takes notes longhand.

While most other students in their seminar seem happy to type straight into their laptop, creating a flurry of ceaseless, erratic clicks that nearly drowns out the professor’s voice and drives Elio up the wall, he and Oliver seem to be the only holdovers, preferring pen and paper. It feels reverential to Elio, like they two alone are honoring their lineage of study from the first places of study in the ancient world, through the rise of the Oxbridge tradition, and the one-room school houses in New England. Elio likes that the same old fashioned place inside him lives inside Oliver as well.

Elio had first made this observation during the early days of their class together, where the only way to ignore someone meant being constantly aware of them.

Elio sits close to Oliver, now. So close that he can’t help but watch Oliver openly. His bare feet, reddened with healing blisters and calluses, are planted wide in the lush cream fibers of the carpet of Oliver’s living room floor, his elbows resting on spread knees as he leans over the college-ruled notebook folded back on itself on the coffee table. His blue eyes jump between the Greek text they translate, each working on their own section, and the resulting English words that flow from the tip of his Mont Blanc pen with little hesitation.

For the first time, Elio can see the quality of Oliver’s penmanship march across the page. The precision is striking, his script elegant and perfectly spaced, like he’d been properly taught how to write in cursive and then actually practiced it.

This shouldn’t really surprise him but it does. Oliver continues to be a home for contradictions, something that is his most intriguing, and therefore frustrating, quality.

Elio sets his pencil down carefully, letting it rest in the seam of his Plato book to hold his place.

_I will be contrite. I will be a model classmate. I will basically be the exact opposite of what I’d been last night._

This had been the intention he’d set as he walked over to Oliver’s apartment building earlier, kicking at the first round of this autumn’s fallen leaves, like some small boy sent home after not playing nicely with the neighbors. There is something that he knows he needs to say. Something he’s has had plenty of practice saying it lately, too.

“I’m sorry.”

The pen on Oliver’s page freezes.

_They’d managed to avoid any talk of the project (and each other, too) for a week. Long enough for Oliver to fly off to New Jersey and tally another win, this time a trouncing at Rutgers that was so monstrous that news of it even managed to find its way on Elio’s Twitter feed._

_The rift between them has taken on a hardened edge since the party at Hillel. Brittle in a new and more complicated way. It hasn’t just the awkward, oops we hooked up again weirdness, but active tension. Friction like anger. Like hurt._

_He’d sat in that darkened room for nearly twenty minutes after Oliver had left, stewing in the aftermath. His veins had coursed with a disorienting mix of their tandem orgasms, Oliver’s following freak-out and that disgusting red punch, leaving Elio numb and a bit sea sick. How different things might be had Oliver never thrown a perfect spiral? Or if Elio didn’t still feel the need to walk through the world shrouded in prickly cloak of protection and regret?_

_He’d been nervous to see Oliver again that following Monday, his palms sweating, hands tingling, pulse raised. So much so that he’d hung out in his father’s office until he’d looked at his watched and asked, “Don’t you have class?_

_He’d let his eyes find Oliver, narrowed, almost menacing. It was an overreaction but also the way he could find any sense of control._

_The following class meeting, Elio had been reading a series messages left on Facebook (his old piano teacher in Milan, his aunt, several friends from Paris that he was sure he’d never hear from again) with a soft smile on his face. That’s not his prefered social media platform, but on this day, out of the whole year, it’s actually pretty nice. He’d been distracted and hadn’t noticed Oliver coming up next to him._

_“Give me your phone,” Oliver had said with all the conviction of a first time mugger._

_Elio had looked at him then glowered at his extended hand._

_“Why?”_

_“So I can put my number in it and you can text me your address. We have to start working on the translation.”_

_“Why my place?” Elio had asked before quickly ascertaining the answer himself. His lips had morphed into a perfect “o” that he inhaled through. “Right. Can’t let anyone like me around. What would the neighbors say?” He’d posed, letting his voice become as sybyllent as he dared._

_Then he’d winked._

_“Elio...” Oliver’s voice had been soft but testy. “Can we just get this stupid project over as quickly as possible so we can go back to...”_

_“To what exactly?”_

_By this time the room had been empty, save them. Elio had turned towards him, placing one hand on the table and the other on his hip. He’d canted them forwards just enough and Oliver’s eyes had flicked down, his body swaying as if at war with itself about whether to lean in or pull back._

_Elio had so desperately wanted Oliver to do something, say anything, to acknowledge this complex song and dance they’ve found themselves in. To admit that whatever happened the previous weekend had felt good even if it hadn’t been right._

_Instead, he’d clenched his jaw and refused to engage and Elio’s defenses had upped another level._

_“I have to stay at practice late but I’m free after 8:30.”_

_“Wait...you want to do it tonight?” Elio had faltered._

_“The presentation is Friday.”_

_“Can’t we do it later? Tomorrow sometime maybe?”_

_“We’ve put this off for over a week. There is no ‘later’. And I don’t know about you but I’d prefer not to fail this class.”_

_Elio had handed his phone over with a growl._

As sincerely as he’d meant it, Oliver doesn’t seem too interested in Elio’s apology.

“Doesn’t matter,” He says, not even looking away from his books. He adjusts himself higher up on the cushions, clearing his throat. “Let’s just get this finished, ok?”

“Yeah, sure.” Elio turns back to his papers but only for a moment, compelled to explain. “It’s just, it was my birthday.”

His 21st in fact.

_Elio has been able to drink legally in his home country since he was 16 so yesterday hadn’t been the massive milestone in his life the way it would have been for most American college students._

_But the minute Marzia had gotten word, she had insisted on celebrating._

_She’d shown up at his door only an hour before Oliver was meant to come over, her hair piled up in a messy bun on top of her head, a bright blue scarf tucked artfully around her neck, her arms full of junk food and a massive bottle of cheap vodka, beaming up at him with utmost affection._

_“Marz…” Elio’d groaned, trying to let her down nicely. He’d used her new nickname, with a Z like Mozart, knowing how much she likes it._

_She’d immediately forced her way into his apartment, ignoring his plea and opening cupboards and drawers for supplies with total familiarity._

_“Sam will be over after he goes that recital and I told him to bring people. And more booze, of course. We’ll all go out to some bars after that.”_

_“I can’t tonight, I told you. I have to do this thing for class...” Elio had tried to explain._

_“Nope, no work. Not allowed. It’s your birthday.”_

_“Yes, and I have one every year right around this time. It’s really not a big deal.”_

_“Well, it’s a big deal to me,” she’d said turning to him, crestfallen._

_It was only then that Elio realized how frazzled she looked, like she’d been rushing around trying to put something nice together for him. They’ve only been friends for a little over a month, no matter how immediate and dear they’ve become in that short amount of time. Celebrating something important like a birthday could be one of those imprinting moments, creating memories to bind them together for life. She’d needed this with him._

_Elio’s shoulders had slackened and he’d pulled her into a hug, kissing the top of her head where is rested against_ _his chest. Her arms had slipped easily around him. He’s not sure how exactly, but he always seems to wind up with people in his life he knows he doesn’t deserve._

_When he’d released her several, long moments later, she’d been smiling again._

_“So, go on then, what’d you get me?” He’d asked, leaning silkily across the counter._

After a breath, Oliver finally turns to look at Elio, receptive to this possible explanation. “Your birthday? You should have said something.”

Elio scrunches his face. “When exactly would I have done that?” He asks, carefully. “Yesterday morning when you insisted that we _had_ to do our work right away or last night when I propositioned you for a threesome?”

_He and Marzia had broken open the vodka right away, drinking strong screwdrivers from pint glasses then gotten cozy on the couch while they binge watched old episodes of Friends. He’d found himself happy with her snuggled up against him, her ankle hooked around his calf._

_He and Marzia haven’t slept together again since that first time but their friendship is most definitely a physical one, tactile, touchy-feely. People assume things about them and they’d only be half wrong because Elio knows if they were ever in the same mood he could easily tilt her face towards his or cup her breast with his palm and she would say ‘yes’._

_All thoughts of Oliver coming over had disappeared quickly, along with any thoughts of Plato or Aristophanes or the excuses he’d have to make._

_At some point, Elio had spilled wine on his shirt. He only knows this because he’d found the shirt the following morning, crumpled and tossed halfway down the hall in an attempt to get it into the washing machine. He can’t remember how the stain had happened or why exactly he decided to not put another shirt back on._

_But by the time Oliver had rung the buzzer from down in the lobby, he and Marzia been so fucked up that it had taken them a minute to recognize the sound, only for both of them to fall into a fit of giggles when Marzia had said, “Is that your doorbell?”_

_“Is it?” Elio had asked with dramatic trepidation._

_“It must be Sam!” She’d clammered towards the door pushing on the intercom and singing, “Come i-i-in!” cutting off the connection just as the voice on the other end said, “Wait...who?” who total confusion._

_A few minutes later, there had been a knock on the door and Elio had flung it open wide, expecting Sam and maybe a few other school of music friends._

_What he had gotten instead was Oliver, looking like the earnest kid next door from some 1950’s studio movie - picture perfect and ready for his close up. His hair had been slicked back, looking several shades darker from the product. He’d smelled clean, testosterone and pine. Even Elio’s addled brain had recognized how dashing Oliver looked standing in his doorway, fresh from practice and ready to work._

_Elio had suddenly felt very naked and very small._

_Never had Elio been so aware of the differences in their sizes. Not when Oliver had been on top of him on his mattress in Italy, his wrists confined easily in the circle of Oliver’s hand. Not when he’d had cornered him against that classroom wall, his hips pinning him back with a plea for attention. It’s not just the inches of height that Oliver has over him, because they are only a few, but the width of him, the roundness of his muscles._

_Oliver is the Golden Ratio on two legs whereas Elio’s body is all straight lines that never meet. Yet somehow when they’re together, the math works._

_“Oliver,” He’d said, tossing his hair off his brow. “I’d say I’m happy to see but…well.”_

_The following wave of his hand had resulted in Elio needing to prop his other hand on the doorway so not to fall over._

_“We’re supposed to be working on our project. You texted me, remember? 9 o’clock?”_

  
_“Ooops,” Elio had deadpanned._

_Oliver’s brow had creased then as he’d leaned forward, looking intently at Elio’s eyes which were certainly blown wide and red._

_“Jesus, Elio,” he’d said softly. “What are you on?”_

_That was the moment Marzia had decided to make her presence known, calling from inside his apartment._

_“Elioooo...” Her voice had sounded overly feminine and drunk. “Who is it? Where did you go? I need you.”_

_Elio had flushed as Oliver scanned him up and down, not cruising him but assessing. His state of undress, his intoxication, his company. He’d watched as the only logical story came together across Oliver's face. He'd made a soft noise that might almost sounded like dismay if Elio didn't known better than to hope for something like that from him._

_“I’m going to go.”_

_“No, don’t.” Elio had reached for him, both his hands easily finding the narrowest point of Oliver’s waist. He’d stepped closer, remembering the way Oliver’s body had still reacted to his that morning. He could feel Oliver’s skin quiver just above his belt, uneasy for sure, put not pulling away either. Elio had cocked his head, becoming demure and coy, looking up at him through his curls, speaking in an intimate whisper._

_“Why settle for two when we could make it three, eh?” He’d felt so breathless, reckless, oddly possessive of both Oliver and Marzia. “God, she’d_ love _you.”_

_Oliver had stumbled away, mortified by Elio’s lascivious, slurred suggestion. He’d looked over both his shoulders, making sure no one had seen then._

_“I can’t believe y…”_ _With one last terrible look that had cut right through Elio’s buzz, Oliver had walked away._

_“Shit, Oliver!” He’d called after him. But to what end? Elio line had crossed a line. More than crossed, obliterated it with a fucking nuclear bomb._

_When Sam had shown up only a few minutes later, Elio had no longer been in no mood for partying. He’d kicked everyone out of his place well before 10 never even making it to a bar to get carded._

Elio rubs at his temples. He’s been horribly hungover all day, feeling a bit hollow-boned and weak, even after a day of nothing but greasy food.

“I mean, I don’t want to throw my friend Marzia under the bus or anything,” he says, wearily. “But it would have been nice if she’d told me the cupcakes she’d brought were of the...edible variety before I ate three of them.”

When Oliver laughs sharply Elio is so completely unprepared for it he almost flinches. It’s been so long since he’s heard that sound that wasn’t snide or self-deprecating. Oliver smothers a rapidly growing smile with a press of his fingers to his lips.

“Sorry,” Oliver says, “Your friend made you pot cupcakes for your birthday?”

“Eh,” Elio shrugs. “She’s from Colorado.”

That seems like a reasonable enough explanation to them both.

“Look, I really am sorry if I…” Elio states before he pauses and resets his approach. “No, I really am sorry because I know I was an asshole last night. I didn’t mean to blow this off,” he gestures at the coffee table and their work. “And I certainly never meant to put you on the spot or make you uncomfortable.”

It’s about as sincere as he gets and he’s relieved when Oliver takes note. They’ve both forgotten about the project, instead using this chance to fix something they both have decided, right in this very moment, is worth mending.

Oliver holds his pen lightly, it’s delicate length of silver spinning in his curled fingers, eyes cast towards the floor. “I think I was just surprised more than anything”

“What,” Elio laughs softly, “That I wanted to sleep with you again or that I wanted to include a girl?”

Oliver blushes at Elio’s bluntness but meets Elio’s gaze confidently when he answers.

“Both, I guess.”

It’s a look of open softness.

Elio likes this look on Oliver, free from complication. Just two people, being honest. It’s a look very much akin to those most inevitable moments between them. Right before they kiss, that millisecond right after he makes Oliver come and nothing else in the world seems to matter.

It’s a look that shows Oliver isn’t afraid of his own insecurities even if they boggle Elio’s mind. How can Oliver not know the total mess he makes of Elio’s insides just by being near by? But Elio likes that about Oliver too, the unassuming humility he possesses when he could walk around campus like a total arrogant fuck.

Elio likes the sincerity in his eyes that lets Elio know everything that happened last night is forgotten. Likes the way such a look changes the shape of his cheekbones, rounding the at the corners, making him looks less like a chiseled god and just more human. He likes that when Oliver looks at him this way, Elio feels good and kind and worthy and all those things he’s doubted he was for far too long.

Fuck it. He just _likes_ Oliver.

“Happy birthday, Elio,” Oliver says, a verbal punctuation to their non-verbal exchange of apology and forgiveness.

A smile is added to that previous look. Total sweetness.

Elio’s heart flutters and smiles back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW!! Unexpected chance to post!!
> 
> Definitely a little nod to Armie's IG post there at the beginning. 
> 
> I was going to wait until my work obligations were over on Aug 19th, but realized this first half of this scene worked fine on its own and was plenty ample.
> 
> I'll aim to post again before the 19th, but no promises! Busiest time of the year, remember?? And this next chapter is a big one. The boys are finally going to really talk and maybe some other stuff...


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver talk. Amongst other things.
> 
> (Mentions of Oliver's first time at the age of 16, feel free to skip if that squicks you out. It's all very consensual with a boy his own age. If you don't know what "squick" means, do your fanfic research.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG so much talking. 
> 
> Elio and Oliver talk about their sexuality. I am basing this off my own experiences and those of people close to me. It's all a sliding scale and it's all beautiful. 
> 
> Also, I love yous guys.

The irony is, the first guy Oliver ever hooked up with was a football player too.

He’d met him the summer after his sophomore year when he’d spent the last three weeks of June at a combine in Atlanta for rising football hopefuls hoping to showcasing their skills for college recruiters. Camps like this exist all over the country but his parents had chosen this one because they’d heard it was the best place for quarterbacks to be seen.

This had been the summer before he’d started dating Chiara, before Oliver had really even become himself. He was missing about 20 pounds of muscle, an inch of height that he tacked on his junior year. He hadn’t even been the starter in his team the season before, having played back-up to a senior headed to UCLA. He wasn’t Oliver Sugarman, yet. Not the Oliver Sugarman writ large in capital letters on the back of a tee-shirt at the campus bookstore. He’d just been a kid who’d just turned 16, just got his driver’s license, and just come out to himself.

The other boy’s name was Ray Bordeleau and he was a place kicker so it hadn’t been long before the other guys had started with the gigolo/John/hooker/punter jokes. Some had been crude but some were pretty darn clever and Ray had always taken them in stride, with a smile and a shake of his dark blond hair. Oliver had liked that about him.

There was never a spoken moment when they’d asked, “So you are too, right?” because that would have been far too risky. Instead, their mutual attraction was established with looks that held just one heart beat too long, a press of a knee under the breakfast table that was too firm and steady to be a mistake and finally an offer to come to Ray’s dorm room, a single that he’d somehow lucked into, to play some X-Box.

Oliver had been the one to sit on the bed but Ray had been quick to follow. Another unmissable sign.

Even so, Oliver remembers distinctly just how parched his mouth had been in those panicked moments before Ray’s lips had touched his.

They’d fumbled at first. Too much tongue. Not enough. A clack of teeth. But eventually it evened out and god, did Oliver like it.

He’s almost shivered away when Ray had put his hand down the slack waistband of his gym shorts and started to pull him off, his palm sweaty but cool around him. Instead he’d closed his eyes and whimpered. He’d only opened them again right before he was about to come, filled with a sudden terror of doing this in front of another person for the first time . But his terror had only been met with Ray’s eyes watching him, blissed out, in awe. He’d flushed fire red and come all over Ray’s hand.

“Do you want me to...?” Oliver had breathed, offering to return the favor and Ray had given him a stuttering nod. He’d laid long ways across the the extra-long twin bed and Oliver had spent a moment thinking about using his mouth. He’d watched enough videos online to know that’s what men did to each other. Instead he fit his body behind Ray’s, sucking on his neck as he’d jerked him off while Ray’s ass pressed back against Oliver, who gotten hard again immediately. (He had been 16 after all, it didn’t take much and this was a lot.)

They’d ended up playing X-Box, afterall. Once they’d done everything to each other they’d been bold enough to do, after they’d cleaned themselves up and before the counselor knocked on the door and told them they were violating curfew.

They didn’t talk the next day, or the next. Not out of any regret or awkwardness but because at that age neither of them had the words to encapsulate what had happened. It had been a monumental risk for both of them. Sometimes Oliver looks back at that skinnier, younger self and wonders if he was actually braver and stronger, in some ways, than the man he is now. Or maybe he’d just been stupider, not fully aware of the risks.

When it came to the last day of camp, Ray had found him, his duffle bag slung over the shoulder and punched him on the arm. “Thanks, man,” he’d said in a very dude-bro kind of way.

“Any time,” Oliver had said lamely.

Ray had grinned. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that.”

That was the last time they’d ever spoken.

Oliver had followed his ranking in the combine. Looked for his name on signing day two years later. Ray ended up at Ole Miss but got injured freshman year and quit playing altogether. Oliver didn’t bother to send him a message when he saw the news because he wasn’t sure Ray would want to be reminded of what they’d done together that summer, even though it had been a milestone, never to be forgotten, in Oliver’s life.

This quiet moment of absolution with Elio on his couch feels just as pivotal, at least in the grand scheme of their story line.

It’s also the first time he and Elio have had a conversation that hasn’t ended up with one of them storming off or with their clothes off. Or both. God, they’re a mess.

“You want something to drink?” Oliver pushes himself up off the couch with his hands then turns with a pointed look back towards Elio.  " Some water, maybe?"

Elio, whose bout with sincerity has left his cheeks the same soft pink as his lips, tips his head with a laugh through his nose. “Water would be good. Even though, I feel like I’ve drank half of Lake Michigan today.”

“Hasn’t helped though has it?”

Elio stands too and stretches. He plants his hands on the small of his back, elbows bent backwards, his chest arched. Something in his shoulder or back pops back into place and Elio groans in satisfaction, like an old man.

“Not one bit.”

Oliver grins.

“Well, it’s day after your 21st,” he says as he walks towards the kitchen. “If you aren’t horribly hungover then you’ve done it wrong.”

“Oh?” Elio’s face brightens. “Do go on, Mr. Straightlaced-I-don’t-drink-during-the-season. Please tell me you have a spring birthday.”

“May. And all I’ll say is I woke up around 4pm the following day in a tee-shirt from a bar in St. Louis that claimed that I’d won some sort of chicken wing eating contest.”

“St. Louis? The fuck?”

“Des swears he has photographic evidence but he won’t show me so…” Oliver puts his hands up, claiming innocence.

“Who’s Des?”

“My best friend. He’s on the team too.  I've known him since we were kids."  

Little by little, more is being revealed, not just the superficial basics but their complexities.  It feels natural and inevitable.

He watches Elio move through his apartment as he collects cups for water and a bowl for some snacks (What good host offers just water, anyway?). He pulls out a bag of pita chips and gets some hummus and veggies from his fridge wishing he had something more interesting. Sometimes he really hates his mid-season diet restrictions.

His apartment, where he’s lived since sophomore year, is pretty high-end for Evanston, on the corner of campus and the main drag with the best restaurants and bars. Recessed lighting, a large kitchen that opens to the living room with stainless steel appliances he barely uses and glossy marble countertops. There is a simplicity to the design though, cool white walls, pale hardwood flooring and tall ceilings. The best part might be the rooftop pool with views of the lake. It’s not cheap. Doctors live here. Young businessmen without families commute into the city but Oliver doesn’t pay a dime, all part of his “scholarship”. (NCAA violations, like what?)

Oliver fills two tall glasses with ice as Elio stops in front of his CD collection. They’re relics, mostly from his high school days. Everything recent is on his computer. But when Elio points at the play button on his stereo and looks over his shoulder to ask, _Can I?_ Oliver nods, hoping it won’t be anything too terribly embarrassing that comes out.

The notes of piano, bass, drums and a gentle sax fill the space.

“Omar Avital,” he says with a grain of relief. “He’s an Israeli bass player and composer.”

Elio listens for a moment, intrigued and a bit impressed. He nods, giving it his stamp of approval.

“It’d be cool to listen to some of your stuff some time.”

“I don’t write anything like this,” he gestures gently at the music then slips his hand into the pocket of his pants, trim, straight leg trousers.

“More classical?”

“More French,” he answers, with a smug grin.

Elio’s feet cross one of the other in a slow meander, moving through Oliver’s place like it’s a museum. He looks at the pictures tacked on the wall. There are a few of his family, a bunch of his teammates but most of them are of him and Chiara, in the frames that she’d bought of course.

What must Elio see when he looks at Oliver’s fake life? Does he pity him? Find him pathetic? Is it possible he’s even a little jealous? Probably not of him, but of her?

“So that’s the girlfriend, huh?” Elio asks gently. He makes himself useful, opening the bag of chips into the bowl.

“Chiara.”

“She’s pretty.”

“Thanks?” It feels horribly strange to talk to Elio about her, like mentioning one in front of the other is betraying them both.   A needling thought begins to buzz at the base of his skull.

“You and...Marzia, was it?” Oliver asks.

“Mmhmmm.”

Oliver cuts through a red pepper and adds it to the plate. Elio picks it right back up and bites it.

“She’s your…”

“Friend?” He chews around the word, a curious lilt to the end as if he couldn’t understand what other answer he might give.

“Right.” Oliver laughs uncomfortably at himself, feeling a bit silly. “I only ask ‘cause...well, last night. You weren’t serious, obviously. I mean, you guys haven’t..”

Elio waits. Something about his posture makes Oliver think he’s almost enjoying this. “Haven’t...what?”

“Slept together?”

“No, we have,” Elio states. He brings the rim of his glass to his lips. “The night she and I met actually. Twice.”

He drinks, sets his glass down, swallows. The ice clinks against the side. He is unphased.

“Right,” Oliver says, deciding he really should cut those baby carrots when really it’s just an excuse to focus his attention somewhere other than on Elio’s face. He forces the knife through lengthwise, landing with an aggressive snap against the cutting board.

“So, girls too, then.”

“Yep.”

“So you’re…”

Another carrot, another crack of the knife.

“It’s ok. You can say the word, Oliver.”

He sets the knife down on the counter and forces himself to look.

“You’re bi.”

Elio nods once. “Correct. Or pan. Either works, really.” Then with slightly more regard. “Is that weird for you? Considering...”

“No.” Oliver states, firmly. “I don’t care. I just, I didn’t think people like you really existed.”

Elio snorts. “You’re a quarterback classics major. I didn’t think people like you really existed either and yet here we are. It’s almost like the start of some joke, isn't it? ‘A gay football player and a bisexual walk into a bar…’”

Oliver laughs gently, dismissing the fluttering feeling in his stomach as Elio looks up at him, playful and affectionate.

“Besides,” Elio goes on. “You’re the one with the girlfriend.” He tilts his tips his head towards the wall of pictures.

Oliver considers the pictures of Chiara, her things that live in his bathroom and the bottom drawer of his dress,er “Just in case.”, the way she’d kissed him after they’d had dinner together just a few hours earlier and he'd felt nothing all the while trying not to think of the text from Elio that he’d woken up to saying,

_Free anytime after 5pm. Just tell me when and where_ _I’ll be there._

And his answer, 

_Mine. 8pm. Google map attached._

And how much he’d hoped the night would unfold much as it has.

“Yes, I have a girlfriend.  A girlfriend who I really have no interest in taking to bed.”

Now it’s Elio’s turn to be perplexed. “Really? Like...none at all?”

“I think of it like this.” Oliver leans his hip against the counter, crossing his arms. “I really don’t like mushrooms.”

“Ok,” Elio says carefully, trying to buy into Oliver’s stream of logic.

“Can’t stand the texture, don’t really feel like they have any flavor. _Hate_ them raw. But I’ll eat them if I have to. Like, if I’m at someone’s house and they’ve cooked for me and they’re in there. I’m not going to be rude. Or if they’re in something really flavorful like a stir-fry or on a pizza, they can actually be kind of ok. And if mushrooms suddenly became the last food substance available to humanity, obviously I wouldn’t make myself starve. But if I had my way, I wouldn’t eat mushrooms ever again in my whole life.”

“And...women are mushrooms?”

Oliver laughs, realizing how ridiculous that sounds. “Yeah. I guess so.”

Elio considers that momentarily, biting the inside of his lips.

“Maybe you just haven’t met the right mushroom, yet.”

They both laugh as Elio’s tired cliche meets Oliver’s metaphor.

“It’s always just felt pretty black and white for me,” Oliver goes on, lining the chopped carrots nicely on the plate. “One and not really the other.”

“I definitely lean towards men, too.”

“Really? So it’s not, like, 50/50?”

“Some days it is. Some days it feels like 100% one or the other. Other’s I just can’t be bothered at all. It just depends. Depends on me, my mood, who I meet.  It's a different kind of desire, men and women. I know it totally sounds like a catch phrase, but it really has all to do with the individual and not the anatomy they have.” Elio shrugs lightly. " I like people who intrigue me.  People who aren’t always what they seem to be.” He plays with the ice in his glass, tilting it one way than the other. “People... kinda like you.”

There is it. Spoken. Unequivocal.

Oliver’s crush: reciprocated.

He doesn’t quite know what to do with this information in this moment.

Elio waits. For a reply. A smile. Anything.

Instead, Oliver picks up the food plate and his water and takes it back over to the couch. Out of the corner of his eye his sees Elio’s full-bodied, dismayed eye-roll. But Oliver’s heart is beating too hard in his chest, up through the veins of his throat and into his ears. There’s no way he could form any intelligible response right now.

Elio helps make room amongst their books, but neither really seem to eager to jump right back in. They sit on the couch, though definitely closer than they had been before.

Elio pops a baby carrot in his mouth and leans back on the sofa, one arm resting behind his head. He listens as the music continues in the background, the long form jazz pieces developing and morphing, creating harmonies and secondary themes. His long legs, heavily bent at the knees, make for awkward angles as he fits himself into the small space between Oliver’s furniture and yet it works. Elio is so at ease with himself, in his body, in his sex life. He just exists in the world, not trying to fit any mold. What must that be like, Oliver wonders.

“When did you come out?” Oliver decides to ask. He’s never had this opportunity for this type of discussion with someone before, at least not with someone he planned on knowing for more than one night.

“I never really did. I just started hanging out with guys and hanging out with girls. People figured it out quickly enough.”

“And everyone was ok with that?”

“My parents, you mean?” Elio sits forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, slotting his thin fingers together. “Yeah, they just want me to be happy. To not...be a fuck up, or whatever.”

His face drops, his eyes going dark, an ironic twist to his lips. The look reminds him of the time he’d asked Elio what he was doing in Rome, when he’d asked about why he left Paris, broken and ashamed but fiercely protective too.

“What about you?” He asks, morphing just as quickly back to easy, conversational Elio. He’s clearly had practice at making that transformation.

“When did I _know_ , you mean? Cause coming out...” He makes a futile gesture with his hands.

Elio’s brow furrows so delicately, not confusion but concern. “You haven’t come out? Not to anyone, Des or...” Oliver shakes his head. “No one knows?”

“You know.”

It’s stating the obvious, and yet, it feels like Oliver has just admitted to something more, something of equal weight to Elio’s profession just moments before.

Which is, that Elio is the exception to every rule he’s lived by his whole life until now. That he alone holds a role unique and special in Oliver’s life. That he matters.

Elio collects the look Oliver gives him, a bit overwhelmed and maybe even a little honored, with a small nod, tacet agreement to gladly be his secret keeper.

The friction is palpable, but Elio doesn’t move to close the distance. It has to be Oliver this time and he knows it.

Tender, he hooks his forefinger under Elio’s chin, the pad of his thumb settling delicately on the soft skin of Elio’s chin. He can feel the faintest trace of stubble and he sweeps against it gently, velveteen.  Elio’s lips part, a gasp sliding out as his eyes soften. He looks desperate and so fucking beautiful. Oliver’s lips dance into a victorious smile, knowing in this moment, Elio is all his. He wets his lips and leans in.

This feels is a real first kiss, fluttering butterflies and all. Glorious and heart pounding, but innocent too. They are two boys kissing on a couch in the nighttime while music plays. They kiss just to kiss. Kissing just cause it feels good. Because kissing is fun. Because Elio likes Oliver and Oliver likes Elio.

Oliver shifts his hand, covering the entirety of Elio’s jaw and pulls him in deeper. Elio surges forward, fingers splaying across Oliver’s knees, swelling into the kiss just as he pulls back.

His eyes stay closed as he licks his lips, savoring the taste and heat of Oliver that lingers there.

“We, ah, should finish the translation.”

“Yeah, no,” Oliver says, flustered. He turns himself back towards the coffee table and their books wondering if he’d gotten things all wrong. “Sorry.”

Elio leans close, nudging him with his shoulder. “And then we should do more of that.”

Elio’s words are slow, almost dripping with sweetness. But in his eyes is that black intensity of desire, the promise that it won’t stop at kissing next time.

“I don’t know,” Oliver says, looking at the array of books on the coffee table glumly. “This might take us all night.”

Elio smiles slowly, catching on quickly. “Yeah.” He tisks, sounding equally dire. “Yeah, it really might.”

They finish the project a few hours later then finish each other off, right there on Oliver’s couch. Torsos aligned, but bodies flipped, head to toe. Oliver has never heard anyone make as exquisite, needy sounds as Elio does as he comes in Oliver’s mouth, his lips and tongue wrapped still around Oliver’s pulsing cock.

They kiss in his doorway sometime around 3am, their entwined fingers the last things to let go as Elio wishes him a good night.

Only a few hours later, both looking a bit giddy from lack of sleep and the other thing fostering between them, they present their work in class before Oliver boards a flight for his game in Nebraska.

They get an A.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter may take a while but OOO-boy. Fun times ahead. :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for @ihightlydoubtthat, the Queen of Sin and one of the sweetest girls around, who says my name like no one else, on the celebration of her marriage. xoxo
> 
> This is a shorty, but wanted to get something out even mid-chaos!! Also, do heed those rating warnings...the next few chaps are gonna get Explicit. :)

_**Friday, October 12, 2018** _   
_**SportsCenter, 9:47 pm** _   
_**“After their solid win against Nebraska and Clemson’s stunning loss at home again Wake Forest, Northwestern now finds themselves sitting at the top of both the AP and ESPN polls. With Big10 and National Championship goals in sight, I spoke with senior Wildcat quarterback Oliver Sugarman about his goals for the second half of the season.”** _

Bye weeks are weird.

Without the focus of a game that weekend, Coach tends to get a little creative with practices. Going back to basics but in a way the team doesn’t expect. For example, they’d walked out onto the practice field Wednesday to find all the yard lines and hash marks had been removed and they were expected to run their routes based off feel and rhythm and not any visual cues from the field.

Bye weeks usually include such buffoonery as taking new pictures to be used for pre-game promos, signing t-shirts to be used as prizes at the next home game. Or things like this interview he’s just tuned into - Oliver sitting in the hall of the training facilities by the trophy display, under hot lights with makeup on being asked inane questions by a sportscaster with too much product in his hair and his sleeves rolled up to try and look chill and less stuffy for the college crowd.

Oliver knows it’s good for the program to get highlighted on the national broadcast like this, though, so he does his best.

Still doesn’t mean he likes watching himself. He sits on his couch, his right knee bouncing, trying not to wince at the answers he gives. Does his voice always sound that high?

“Your name is getting tossed around a lot these days,” the interviewer says, taking all of this incredibly seriously. The camera cuts to the man’s face as he begins ticking things off with his fingers, a pen still clutched against his palm. “First Team All American, Academic All American, Heisman Award, #1 in the draft. Aside from all the successes the team is having this season what does all that mean to you?”

Oliver watches himself mull the question over with a bashful shake of his head. “I mean, it’s a lot. But I’m really lucky. I have the full support of my teammates, my coaches, my family and my friends. I couldn’t do any of this without them.”

“And one particularly special friend too. If social media is anything to go by, you’ve got yourself quite a fan/girlfriend combo.”

By the time the camera cuts to him on screen Oliver is looking towards his lap and blushing even through his makeup. It comes off a shy and totally smitten at even the mention of his girl.

Real life Oliver exhales slowly through his mouth, relieved.

Cause in that split second of dramatic pause between the interviewer’s first statement about a “special friend” and the next, dragged out by that dangling participle, he hadn’t thought of Chiara.

He’d thought of Elio.

Their rapprochement would go unnoticed by anyone but themselves. The new camaraderie that has them sitting next to each other instead of opposing sides of the table, chatting amiably before class starts, could be easily explained away by the fact that worked together on that project.

Their leaving class together would also not arouse any suspicion, even as they subconsciously take the route out of the building that brings them right past Prof. Perlman’s office, giving them the chance to toss a “Morning, professor,” and a “Ciao, papa,” through his open door. The good professor looks up from his computer monitor just in time to wave back and smile broadly.

There is no way anyone notices the way Oliver lingers nearby but down wind as Elio lights a cigarette once outside, taking only a puff or two from the filter before detecting Oliver’s dislike and discomfort and tossing it to the ground, putting it out with the toe of his elegant boot.

No one sees the way Elio fingers ripple in farewell, his hands a delicate extension of the almost too long sleeves of the pale brown leather jacket he wears, it’s supple fabric cropped around his waist, collar popped high around his handsome jaw, as he flashes Oliver a look and says “Later,” as they head opposite directions on campus.

It would be impossible for anyone to know that as Oliver walks to his next class, earbuds in his ears, he’s listening to a piece for four-hand piano that Elio wrote last year as a final for his counterpoint class that he’d uploaded to his Soundcloud and shared with Oliver only last night.

Whatever is in the process of becoming between them is completely secret. Oliver has no doubt, of that. It’s easily disguised as classmates or casual acquaintances, friends even, because Oliver likes to think that they are.

Everything else is private, unknownable and invisible. But the camera, as they see, sees everything.

Ever since he gave that interview this afternoon, Oliver has been walking around with a burning hole in his stomach. What if that momentary switch up in his mind was caught on film? Broadcasted nationwide? Would anyone else be able to tell that Oliver had thought of someone other than his girlfriend right at that moment? Would anyone notice at all? Or would the expression on his face at the thought of Elio be so obvious as to start the great unravelling of his this?

Oliver clicks off the TV and throws his head back against the cushion. “Calm down, dude,” he says to himself.

No harm, no foul. His Friday night can proceed as normal. Except it’s not normal as he’s not currently on a bus or a plane traveling somewhere or over hydrating with plans to be in bed by 9pm.

Add to this the extra weirdness that he’s without Chiara this weekend. She’s tied up with sorority business. Fall Rush is complete and this is the weekend the selected girls are initiated in some secret ceremony she won’t even tell Oliver about. She’ll show up at his place Sunday night after not sleeping for two days, flush full of love for her “sisters”, bursting about how amazing Tri Delt is, yet already complaining about some of the girls’ behavior. Knowing this is her last year, he’s sure there will be some sentimental tears too.

Still flopped on the couch, legs spread out long in front of him, he fires off a few texts - Des, Ruiz, Jackson, just to see what they’re getting up to. He checks the score of the Friday night games, mostly smaller non power-conference schools who have no bearing on his team’s future. He’s just a lover of the game and likes to keep up

Oliver tosses his phone to the side and takes a moment to enjoy the silence of his place. The solitude. It’s a rare commodity in his life. He lets his mind soft and unfocused, releasing the last of the tension he’d been carrying around all day.

Unsurprisingly, his thoughts drift towards Elio.

Besides class, they’ve texted a few times, keeping it flirty and light. He’s saved Elio’s number under the vague contact name of EP. Even so he deletes the texts as he gets them, though part of him wishes he didn’t have to.

With so much different about them, Italy vs. New England, football vs. music, out vs closeted, he still feels something familiar when he looks at Elio and has since the night they met. Like inner selves vibrate on the same frequency, creating not identical, but parallel wavelengths that erase all the static in his life and leave him with a sense of calm.

They haven’t been alone since that night, turned early morning, that Elio was here. Oliver turns his head and reaches, spreads his fingers across the fabric the couch, as if hoping to conjure a hologram of what they had done there together. He can only imagine how pornographic they must have been, the two of them curled around each other, Elio’s lithe limbs and Oliver’s toned body, twisted and entwined, writhing. Drawing out such glorious sounds, one from the other.

Oliver feels his cock stir.

Alone and with nothing better to do, he undoes the fly of his jeans then slides his hips lower, scooting his ass towards the edge of the sofa to make room for his palm to slide into his boxers. He encircles his cock, giving it a few lazy, teasing pulls, his fingers turning soft around the head. It’s just enough to stoke that fire in his gut, for his lips to part and become aware of his heartbeat in his chest.

He wonders what Elio is up to tonight. Perhaps out with friends at a party or a bar, now that he’s drinking-age legal? Has he gone out looking for some action, a man or a woman, a willing lover to suit his mood tonight? Or maybe he’s on his own, too.

Feeling the arc of his orgasm approaching, Oliver lets go.

Only one way to find out.

He grabs his phone. There’s a text from Des but he swipes it away without even looking. He types quickly.

                _What you up to?_

It’s casual enough, he figures but even so he bites at his thumb nail waiting for the read message receipt to appear. It does almost instantly.

                                                                                                                                                             _Not much. Just got home from a recital._

                _How was it?_

                                                                                                                                                            _Meh. Trombone_

Another text comes through with both the eye roll and vomit face emojis. Oliver smiles, unaware that one could have such violent feelings about trombone playing.

_What about you?_

Oliver glances down to where his pants hang open, his hard on flagging but not gone.

_Sitting here_

Then with a tremble of his fingers Oliver adds,

_Thinking about you…_

Under Oliver’s last text, three little bubbles appear to indicate that Elio is typing. They hover for longer than Oliver can stand. Finally, he replies with completely understanding.

_Show me._

Oliver drops his phone to his belly, taking a slow, steadying breath in and out. “Fuck,” he whispers. He’s never done this before and his adrenaline is thrumming.

_I promise I’ll delete it._

_I just want to see how hard you are just thinking about me._

How does he know? How does Elio always know exactly what to say to drive Oliver wild? And how is he so self-assured to just ask for what he wants?

_Only if you send me one first._

Oliver types with a daring smile, totally exhilarated.

_Easiest deal I ever made_

_2 sexs_  
  
_I means secs….lol_

Sure he did.  Oliver snickers just as the picture appears.

It’s yellowy, Elio’s camera phone unable to pick up enough light for full exposure. But Elio the man is on total display. He’s laying down, his bed or the couch just like Oliver, so in addition to a glimpse of Elio’s flat belly and nearly hairless navel, the picture captures Elio’s pretty cock, long and narrow much like he is. He holds it in his hand, his thumb frozen in time as it brushes across the ridge of the head. Oliver wishes that were his hand instead, or just a video so he could watch.

Oliver slides the elastic waist of his boxers over his hips. He strokes himself several times, even though he’s already hard again. Holding his cock at the base, he can barely believe he’s about to do it when he hears the click of his camera and the descending swoop of a message being sent.

_My place. Right now._

Oliver’s not sure he’s ever gotten his shoes on, collected his car keys and wallet, rushed to the elevator, slammed the button for the basement garage and turned over the ignition for his Jeep faster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your continued readership and support.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio has plans for the evening now that he knows Oliver is on his way over to his apartment.
> 
> (Umm...I think there's some plot in here...somewhere...This ain't PG. Never was, y'all so heed that warning!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your patience with this update! My crazy month is over and I hope to resume a more normal posting schedule ASAP! xx

Who cares that Elio is _literally_ waiting right inside the door for Oliver to knock? He gives zero shits that this kind of eagerness is neither subtle or suave, he just doesn’t want to waste a single second once Oliver’s here.

In the approximately fifteen minutes he knew it would take Oliver to get across campus and find street parking, Elio had quickly cleaned his bedroom, dumping all his toiletries haphazardly into a drawer. He’d gathering up stray cups that had been collecting on his bedside table and put them into the dishwasher. He’d stuffed dirty laundry into his closet with a mental promise to actually do laundry this weekend. He’d straightened the sheets on the bed, fluffed the pillows, dimmed the lights.

His place isn’t nearly as fancy or big as Oliver’s but it’s got a killer view and he pulls open all the curtains, letting the Chicago skyline fill the corner windows and help set the mood.

He’d paused the second before he’d lit some incense, something delicate and not too hipster. He hadn’t been trying to make his room romantic, had he? No, he’d decided. He just didn’t want his place looking or smelling like a musty, college hovel. He’d clicked the lighter on and blew out the tip before setting the smoldering stick in its holder.

Then he’d hurried back into the bathroom to gather some accoutrement from the medicine cabinet. He’d put them out of sight but within arm’s reach of the bed. Elio hasn’t suggested the act that requires these items and Oliver hasn’t offered, but it doesn’t mean Elio hasn’t been waiting for it. Hadn’t wanted it that first night in Rome. Hasn’t imagined it in the intervening weeks they’ve been circling around each other.

Doesn’t mean that Elio isn’t ready for tonight to be the night.

“Hi,” Oliver says as Elio opens the door, his hand still raised in a fist from knocking. He’s breathless, proving that he really had heeded Elio’s demand to come over straight away.

“Hello,” Elio says, equally breathless though for entirely different reasons.

Oliver comes through the door with his hands in the back pocket of his jeans. Elio grabs one of those bent wrists and drags him close as he kicks the door closed behind them with his heel.

Oliver melts, sliding into Elio frame with a sharp inhale. Oliver fists the thin tee shirt hanging off Elio’s shoulders, scrunching the fabric so it lifts off the small of his back Oliver’s other hand falls to a gentle rest at Elio’s collarbone, the heel of his hand over Elio’s heart with his thumb propped under Elio’s chin to tilt his head upwards allowing for better access. When their tongues meet at the threshold of their mouths, Elio moans, greedy and happy.

How different this feels to their first encounter. Oliver had been so nervous, Elio so ready with his well-rehearsed pretense. He’d needed to coax Oliver open gently, like the slow bloom of a rose which once unfurled had been as beautiful as anything Elio had ever experienced. But tonight, they come to this uncomplicated, frenetic coupling as equals. Offering each other something that doesn’t need to be sought after anymore, just requested and happily given.

Even though a part of Elio’s subconscious processes it as such, the rest of him - mind, body, soul - know that this isn’t the start of a relationship. It isn’t, nor can it ever be something that will be defined by any title besides “affair” or “dirty little secret”. But it is something mutual. Something egalitarian. That is evident in the way they work Oliver’s coat off over his shoulders, Elio at the unzipped collar, Oliver with the sleeves. It’s evident in the smile that Oliver flashes at Elio as he looks down at Oliver’s naked toes and says, “Flip flops? Seriously?  You do know that there was frost last night.”

“Fastest on, fastest off,” he explains before cupping Elio’s face and pulling him into another open mouthed kiss, his breath a satisfied exhale through his nose.

Elio can’t remember the last time he’s felt something this good.

No quick fumble against a wall will do. Not even the encounter on Oliver’s couch with their pants hiked down just low enough for access would be quite enough. No, tonight Elio wants Oliver horizontal. He wants skin, every gorgeous inch. He wants to slow the tempo so they have the time to enjoy each other and be fully conscious in the act of doing it, too, sober and with intent. Anything less than that would feel unfair, almost.

Knowing the way, Elio navigates them towards his bedroom, shirts and socks falling away as they go. Oliver’s knees collide with the edge of his bed as soon as they enter the room and he shimmies out of his pants before laying back against the comforter. Elio steps out of his pants as Oliver watches, sliding high enough so his head falls against the pillows. He smiles, small and expectant as Elio crawls between the V of his thighs, settling between his hips.

For a moment, both Oliver’s broad arms wrap across the expanse of Elio’s back, hands cupping Eli’s shoulders. He squeezes Elio’s body to his. It's a hug, pure and tender. Elio kisses his neck. This is exactly where he wants to be.

“I want you inside me.”

It seems the right thing to say after both of Oliver’s hands have slid into his briefs, squeezing the roundness of his ass cheeks once before ghosting his hands over Elio’s hip points to carefully draw the waistband over Elio’s swollen cock. Elio pushes the underwear down off the ends of his legs as Oliver’s hips rise to press his erection, still contained under his own layer of cotton, against Elio’s naked length. The sensation is muted but warm and Elio glides into the friction. Oliver, whose hands have come to rest on Eli’s ass again - large and insinuating - appears to have the same exact plan for tonight as Elio does.

So he says it. Lays the offer on the table.

But instead of Elio’s breathy request being met with a sigh or a groan or a Fuck, yes, Oliver goes still, the weight of his hands lightening up to Elio’s waist.

“You what?” He pants.

Elio sits back on his heels. “Enough with the _primi piati_ , Oliver.” He makes quick work of Oliver’s final article of clothing. “We’re both ready for the main course now, yes?” He tosses the light grey boxers in the corner along with the rest of their clothes. So much for having cleaned up the laundry.  
  
“I um…”

“Don’t worry.” Elio sinks back into Oliver’s body and Oliver’s eyes roll closed a the feel of their bodies touching, naked, head to toe. Elio plants a kiss, quick but wet, on his lips. “I’ve got plenty of condoms and lube.”

Oliver pulls away from Elio’s next attempted kiss, his neck craning at an odd angle on the pillow. He shakes it ‘no’ gently.

“I’ve never…Umm...”

Elio leans on his elbow, his hips still resting in the cradle of Oliver’s body. He feels a surge of giddiness as he watches Oliver blush.

“Seriously? I just assumed that you’d…God, I love an unexpected bottom.” His bites at his lips, his whole body falling forward so his head rests next to Oliver’s against the pillow. He kisses his cheek, a delicate whisper against Oliver’s stubble. “I’m gonna slick you up so well that you’ll be as wet and ready for me as when you’re balls deep in Chiara.”

He can feel the discomfort take over Oliver’s body the second he says it. He pulls away, slipping out from under Elio. It had been too much, clearly. Too forward. Too crass. Mentioning the girlfriend was also probably not his smartest move and Elio is fully prepared to launch into troubleshooting mode when he sees the way Oliver has turned towards him: one hand tucked under the pillow, the other toying with the stitching of the hem.

Oliver’s not annoyed or turned off, he’s shy. Unsure. He’s back to first night Oliver and Elio can’t understand why. Not when they’ve done so much since then, when this feels like such a natural next step.

“No, Elio, I...I’ve never done that before, either.”

Elio snickers, then says, “What bottomed or been balls deep in Chiara?”

It takes Oliver a minute before he can bring himself to look up at him. “Both?”

Elio props himself up on one of his hips. “What do you mean? You two have been together for…” He attempts to count on one hand. “How many years?”

“Seven.”

“And not even once? I mean, I know she’s a mushroom and all…” A sweet smile flashes on Oliver’s face. His long lashes fall against his cheeks and Elio has to resit the urge to brush his thumbs against them. He shakes his head again, no.

“Not Prom night? Not ever?”

He wets his lips, rolling his eyes with his admission. “She wants to wait until she’s married.”

“Seriously?”

Elio smiles down at him, waiting for Oliver to break the joke. Then he laughs uncomfortably when Oliver does no such thing. Then he finally fucking gets it.

“You’re a virgin.”

Oliver buries his face in the pillow and groans. Elio flips his palm upwards, pointing a dangling finger towards Oliver. He scoots closer to him, the mattress bouncing below them. “But our first night...You said, _you said,_ you weren’t a virgin.”

“It’s cause I’m not,” Oliver states, eyes going wide. “I’ve done lots of stuff with lots of guys.”

“ _Stuff._ ” The air quotes are unnecessary but Elio does them anyway. He’s flummoxed beyond belief and can’t be held accountable. “Hooked up with not fucked. Hand jobs, blow jobs, non-penetrative sex. Oliver, that doesn’t count.”

Oliver’s mouth goes agape, totally indignant. “That’s a very, ya know,... hetero-normative concept of virginity you’re adhering to here, Elio” Oliver says, taking on the holier-than-thou air of one desperate for some self-defense. “And I really think you should reconsider that... _considering_ , that you, you know…have such liberal views on things like gender preference and the fluidity of sexuality...”

“Oliver,” Elio cuts his meandering Ted Talk on the construct of virginity short by cupping Oliver’s face in both hands and locking their eyes together. He needs to bring the focus back to the core of the subject: that this gorgeous, smart, gifted, funny, kind, passionate man has never felt the joy of joining completely with another human body.

Elio feels Oliver’s fingers, a careful brush on the back of his hand. It’s a tender request for acceptance.

“Oliver,” Elio says once again with what he hopes is enough wanton lust in his voice to let Oliver know this isn’t something to be ashamed of. In matter of fact, it’s a complete fucking turn on.

He slides back down next to him on the bed, his thigh draping over Oliver’s, his hands running over the buttery skin of his sculpted body. Even in the warmth of Elio’s bedroom his nipples have hardened to small peaks and Elio’s lets his fingers spend a moment there, brushing back and forth, as he speaks.

“Haven’t you wanted to before, though? Haven’t you ever wanted someone so badly that you just had to feel them from the inside, their heat. _Own_ them, become part of them?” His fingers drift lower, past Oliver’s navel, dancing across the softened skin of Oliver’s cock. He grasps it near the tip, mimicking the vice like tightness one might feel in the actual act, knowing it’s nothing close. Even so, Oliver squirms, eyes pinched shut. Elio feels the blood surge and that flaccid skin fill.

“Or maybe,” Elio settles in even closer, breath against Oliver’s ear, his hand sliding lower to cup Oliver’s balls gently not daring to go farther. Yet.

“Maybe you’d rather know what it feels like to be opened up for someone else, totally flayed and exposed. To feel the pulse of another man’s heartbeat throbbing in time through their cock as he comes inside you. Have you imagined that, Oliver? Wanted it so bad you thought you might break?”

Oliver simpers, swallows thick, eyes closed. “Of course I have,” he admits softly, color painfully high in his cheeks.

“Then why not do it? You claim you’ve had plenty of chances,” Elio asks. His hands stray away from the most erogenous zones of Oliver’s body, drifting idly across the skin of his flank instead in hopes that Oliver might actually have enough brain power to answer the question.

“It was only ever one night stands for me,” he says. A single finger traces the length of Elio’s spine. One night stands until you, it seems to say. “And doing that with someone who I’d just met and who might figure out after the fact who I was…”

“Too risky?”

“Too big of a deal to do with someone I’d never see again.  Call me oldfashioned...”

"No, I like it."

Oliver catches Elio’s hand where it has meandered to the flat space between his pecs. He stills it, presses it against his warm skin. Elio can feel the power of his heart beating there, it’s increased rate.

“You, though,” he starts, looking at their joined hands. “That night with you in Rome was the first time I thought...maybe?”

Just when Elio thought Oliver couldn’t reveal anything more personal, he does. And now Elio is the one overwhelmed and unprepared, a feeling in his chest so euphoric and complex it almost burns.

“You touched me there and…”

“Where?” Elio exhales. “I touched you where?”

He remembers that moment with stunning clarity. That dirty flat. So incredibly late it was more morning than night.

“ _Here_.”

It is Oliver who places Elio’s hand. Past his erection, past his ball sack. It is Oliver who twists his hips and spreads his thighs so he can press the pad of Elio’s finger against the place where Elio would gain entry.

He trembles, nearly unable to contain how turned on all of this has made him. Oliver’s honesty, his audacity. The fact they’d both imagined the same thing all those weeks ago. It’s so much.

It’s fucking everything.

“Shit,” Elio hisses, pressing his forehead into Oliver’s chest perhaps a bit too hard but he needs to put all this somewhere. He lets his finger circle Oliver’s entrance, not pressing inside just around the rim. Oliver is scorching hot and tight and Elio feels more wildly turned on just doing this, just teasing, than he would if they were actually having sex.

“I would have made it so good for you, Oliver.” Elio offers his own confession against Oliver's jaw, lips moving upwards to his ear. “ _I will_ …” This time a vow that makes Oliver’s breath stutter.

“I’m not saying tonight, because...we totally shouldn’t tonight…But Oliver. I’ll make it so good. I swear. _So good._ ”

He hardly knows what he’s saying anymore only that it’s the utter truth.

“I know,” Oliver pants, his fingers sliding into Elio’s hair, his legs twisting around Elio's. “I know you will.”

As their bodies take over, filling the night with instinctual pleasure that is made all the more beautiful by the promise of what’s to come, conversation gives way to the sound of skin slipping past skin, lips pressing and then parting with a smack, breathy sighs and deep moans.

All except Oliver’s final directive that spears Elio straight through to his core.

_Don’t stop._


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio doesn't stop. Sort of.
> 
> And a little Ikea shopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for your brilliant support of this fic! Every kudo, every comment. They are so important and special to me!! xx
> 
> And thanks for sticking along...I know this one is a long haul. Oh - next chapter...Anyone still curious about Paris??

Don’t stop.

_Oliver thought he’d said it with sufficient conviction. But to be fair he can’t really remember. That night is a total blur, a heady mix of fierce want and of raw honesty, wrapped in a layer of self-conscious regret. He’d laid the truth at the feet of someone he’d only just started to trust, someone who could react in any multitude of ways, only for that person to turn that truth right back around and show it to him a completely different light. As not something to be ashamed of but something to explore and to nurture._

_It didn’t matter to Elio that Oliver had never had sex before with another, man or woman. It only mattered that he would with Elio._

_So maybe those words had sounded different to Oliver’s ear. More ecstatic, more sure. But maybe they had come across as a whimper to Elio, an idle aside of someone not totally within their own head instead of a demand from one lover to another. Because as soon as he’d said not to stop, Elio had done the exact opposite and stopped._

_His head had popped up from Oliver’s chest, his hands planting firmly next to Oliver’s ribs on the mattress. “Seriously?” He’d asked. The curls at his temple had stuck his brow, damp with restraint. “Like, for real, no pressure.”_

_“No, I - I like it. It feels good. Really good.”_

_Elio had smiled up at him. For as debauched, naked and hard as they’d both been, his smile had been as innocent as toddler’s gappy tooth grin._

_“One sec,” he’d said, tossing his body with ease across the far side of the bed and fumbling behind his alarm clock for a bottle of lube. The unopened box of condoms that had tumbled into sight at the same time had stayed where it fell._

_Oliver had realized something as Elio had spent several moments, opening the bottle, ripping the seal off with his teeth, twisting the lid back and squirting the viscous liquid across his hand. He’d realized just how much he’s craved this kind of relationship his whole life, if can dare call it that. He’s known Chiara forever. They’ve been together through so many of life’s milestones.  And yet, the bond that is already forming between him and Elio, one that is becoming richer by the day, is already far more complete, more honest. At least as honest as Oliver can ever be._

_There’d been a tightness at the back of his throat as he’d looks down at Elio then. A wish for words he couldn’t find. The momentary flash of a future that could exist only in his imgination._

_He’d traced the arch of Elio’s eyebrow around the corner of his eye over laugh lines and cheekbones, both elegant and proud. His finger had stopped at the crease above Elio’s lip and he could feel his breath fall, shallow and humid. Elio had looked up, nipped at his finger and then said, “Tell me if it’s too much.”_

_Next thing Oliver had known, the entire length of Elio’s middle finger had slid, cool, inside his body. Oliver knew it had to be his middle finger because no other digit could be long enough for him to feel it in his lungs._

_“Ok?” Elio had asked, hand totally still. His eyes had been alert, watching for Oliver’s every reaction. “It takes a while to adjust. Just breathe.”_

_So Oliver had. Slow and even, trying to resist the conflicting urges of squirming away and never doing this again or pressing even harder into Elio’s hand and demanding more._

_“You ever do this...when you’re alone?”_

_“No.” It had been hard to speak. “Not all the way, like this.”_

_Elio hadn’t said anything, just started stroking him softly on his hip near where his cock had gone soft, his body unable to process any other sensation than the one in his ass._ _After a while, Oliver’s breath had become a metronome and Elio, like the musician he is, had kept perfect time, beginning to move in and out, patient and unrushed._

_He had been unprepared for the sensation, like a sudden, embarrassing urgency, so much so that he’d tried to pull away, mortified at what he was sure had just happened. “Fuck, Elio...I’m sor - I’m so sorry..”_

_But that hand on his hip had been firm, keeping him in place. “Sh, sh, sh, you’re fine,” Elio had said. “It just feels like that, but you’re fine. You’re perfect.”_

_It had been the kind of praise he'd never known he needed._

_“I want you to practice this, Oliver.”_

_“What?”_

_“You know about practice, right? Not a game. Practice.” Oliver had heard the self-satisfaction in his voice. “Next time you’re jerking off or in the shower, I want you to do this to yourself. I’ll give you this lube but you need to get used to the feeling of something, someone, inside of you before we can do anything more. I mean, I’m not you but...”_

_“What do you mean ‘not me’?”_

_Elio had settled lower on his knees, his other hand finally becoming involved in the proceedings. Oliver’s cock had been ever so grateful. “Not all of us look like models and are hung like porn stars.”_

_“Oh, shut up. You’re gorgeous.”_

_Elio’s quick tongue had fallen into a demure silence. But only for a moment._

_“Will you do this for me, Oliver? Will you practice so that when we finally do fuck, when I fill you up all the way, you’ll feel nothing but pleasure?”_

_It had almost been like the words were magic. An overwhelming pressure had started to build in his groin as Elio turned his hand, palm down, his finger not only moving in and out but undulating along its path._

_“You promise?”_

_He’d asked again but Oliver had only been able nod, his body ramping up for one of the most intense orgasms of his life, brought about by the touch of Elio’s fingers, both inside and out._

“What do you think of this one?”

Sunday afternoon at Ikea had been Chiara’s idea and the place is packed. He blinks around the kitchen department, the walls lined with cabinetry options, the floor space filled with modern dining room sets.

“What?” Oliver says, pulling himself from his Elio induced fog and Chiara rolls her eyes.

It’s been a crazy week.

Another road game. Another hard-fought road win against a Minnesota team that always seems to play with the all grace of a hoard of invading Carthaginians. Another late night trip home (this time by plane, which had been delayed in Minneapolis by a freak October snow squall), arriving at his apartment to find Chiara asleep in his bed, wearing another one of his shirts, her phone still glowing in her hand. Oliver had made sure not to pry, letting his already exhausted vision blur over the text conversation she’d clearly fallen asleep in the middle of that was still open on the screen.

And though he’s thought of little else, between practice and the game and classes ramping up for midterms and Des insisting on a midweek boys night out and Chiara being oddly clingy (not in an _I know something_ kind of way but in a _Let’s show the world how perfect we still are!_ way.) Oliver has only had a few times alone to put Elio’s instruction to the test.

He’d had another opportunity that morning to experiment with this new form of self pleasure.

Chiara had woken him earlier than he’d have liked with whispers about going to Mass and instructions to “Text me what you want me to pick up for breakfast.” He’d mumbled something that sort of sounded like “Ok,” barely opening his eyes, then lain in bed and waited for the sound of his front door closing.

He’d texted Elio. Just a short morning greeting. It’s not something they do. They aren’t "there" yet in their friendship/relationship/tryst/whatever where daily check-ins are expected, but Oliver hadn’t talked to him since class on Friday and he’d wanted to, so he had. Elio had texted back a few minutes later with coffee mug and croissant emojis, followed with a long line of _Zzzzzzz_ ’s. With a smile on his face, Oliver had deleted the thread and made his way to the shower.

It hadn’t taken long for the heat of the shower and the image of Elio still tucked into his bed, his curls a wild mess around his sleep soft face for Oliver’s sex drive to switch on. Soap slick and bent slightly at the waist, he’d pressed first one, then two fingers inside himself. He’d caught his weight against the tiles, overwhelmed. In all his years, he’s not sure why he's never done this for himself. Perhaps his New England roots have left him with a puritanical fear of his own anatomy. Or maybe, because he’s always assumed he’d never have cause - He would wait to have "sex" until he was wearing Chiara’s wedding ring and then be another one of those cliche couples who were “too tired” to even manage a quick fumble between the sheets on their wedding night. Only Oliver would know the real reason he couldn’t manage it and it would have nothing to do with exhaustion.

He wants to do right by Elio, though. Now that he knows sex is not only an option for them, but in the plans, he wants to be as ready as he can be when the moment, for lack of a better word, comes.

He’d let his voice grow louder as his fingers had explored deeper than he’d ever dared before, his moans rising above the falling water.  He'd known that at any moment Chiara could come home with coffees and pastries.  Call his name as she followed the sound of the water only to find her boyfriend jerking himself off wth two fingers up his own ass.

Maybe he’d even wanted her to catch him. Maybe this could be how it all fell apart, how she finally learned the truth and he could be free.

_I’m gay, Chiara and I want to be with men. I want to be with Elio._

He’d come so hard, he’d needed several minutes with his back against the shower door to catch his breath. Even so, he’d been dressed and making a smoothie in the kitchen when she’d returned.  She'd been wearing a short skirt with patterned purple tights, an outfit more appropriate for a night out than a morning communing with God.  But then that’s her, isn’t it? he’d thought. Always ready for the next picture perfect moment.

She looks like that now, too, standing with her hands spread on a sleek looking kitchen table, it’s glossy top accented by flashes of red at the corners. Her high-heeled booties are crossed precisely at her ankles, the perfect end to the long line of her dark skinny jean-clad legs. She might as well be posing for some home decor magazine.

“The table,” she answers his befuddlement with a hint of exasperation. “What do you think of the table?”

“Oh, yeah it’s...fine?”

“Fine?”

“I don’t know.” He gestures towards the legs. “The red is a little weird.”

“Hmm, really? I like it,” she says breezily before moving on with a wave of her hand and a toss of her hair. “I mean, obviously, whatever we end up getting will be much higher end but I just thought it might be a good idea to start talking aesthetics.  Make sure we agree.”

Oliver catches up with her as she wanders towards the living room display area. Even though an afternoon of retail is never Oliver’s idea of a good time, Ikea is perhaps the least of all evils. He’s always enjoys walking through the mini, sample living spaces the store sets up, decorated with the furniture, lighting fixtures and textiles they have for sale, complete with fake tvs and windows that look out onto pretend cityscapes. The spaces are always well coordinated to showcase a perfect example of efficient, modern living. He likes to imagine the life he might lead if he lived in such a space, what he might be doing for a career, who he would share that space with, if it might be different from the life he’s destined for or just happier.

“Why do we need to agree on kitchen tables?” He asks as he trails his fingers over the smooth fabric of a leather couch.

“Yeah, for next year.”

Ice settles in his stomach. “Next year?” He tries to deflect, but he knows exactly what she’s inferring. “When we move in together, you mean.”

She tucks herself against his side, slipping her arms around his wait to hug him as they keep walking. “At the very least, right? I mean, it makes sense.  But I wouldn’t mind if it were even more than that.”

She looks up at him with utmost eagerness.

“Yeah, yeah, maybe, if that’s what you want.”

Chiara pulls away with a scoff. “Seriously.  'Maybe?' That’s the best you can do when I bring up getting engaged or at least moving in together?”

“Well, I’m sorry, I just didn’t expect for us to talk about this for the first time _today_ in the middle of a display of end tables.”

He gestures to his right towards the offending furniture.

“First time?” Chiara says, her voice rising. The people around them give a wide berth, aware they are witnesses to a domestic spat.  “You know most couples who’ve been together seven years and made chastity promises to each other, wouldn’t even need to talk about it. It wouldn’t need a discussed. It would just be a given.” She looks somewhere between stricken and shrewish. Either way, it’s entirely unpalatable. “And here was me thinking maybe you’d…”

“What? That I’d what?” Oliver looks at her arms lifted from his sides aggressively. He’s feeling his own conflicting set of emotions. He’s embarrassed and caught off-guard and guilty and duplicitous and freaking done. They so rarely fight that there is a boost of adrenaline added to the mix too, a sensation he almost thrives on.

She crosses her arms, giving him a peevish, spoiled pout.  “That you’d, I don’t know, made plans.”

Oliver laughs, heartlessly.  “You think I already bought you a ring?  With whose money? My dads? I know you’re ready to be the wife of an NFL star and all the status and fame you think that's going to include for you but I don’t have any of that yet.  Besides, we haven’t even finished school!"  His voice has gotten frantic.  He doesn't even care about the scene they are making anymore. "Christ, Chiara, who thinks about marriage at 22?”

And with a single word, he’s crossed a line. He’s gotten the “Lord’s name in vain” speech more times than he cares to recount and for all the borderline awful things he’s just said to her, he knows this one thing above all the rest is the most unforgivable.  It's a Mortal Sin, after all, and she’s not even joking.

As she wordlessly walks away he wipes at his eyes with a sigh, knowing he’d just made his day a whole lot harder on himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allan Iverson reference. Yes, I love basketball too. Shout out if you see it!
> 
> Coffee and croissant for the Harem.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio gets dressed and Oliver has a proposal.

_**Championship Drive: Path to the Playoffs, ESPNU** _  
_**Sunday October 21, 2018. 10:14am** _  
_**“This Tuesday the College Football Championship Committee will begin releasing their weekly rankings. Here with his predictions on who we’ll see at the top and who we’ll not, College Game Day’s very own Desmond Howard. Desmond, welcome. Thank for putting on another suit for another morning show for us. You’re looking dapper as always.”** _

_**“I try, Scott, I try.”** _

_**“So, first week of rankings, less than half the season to go. There’s been lots of speculation this week out in the Twitersphere about who we’re going to see in spots 2, 3 and 4, but not really much disagreement about number 1.”** _

_**“No, there really isn’t. I don’t think anyone is going to be surprised to see Northwestern in that spot, right at the top and I think it’s completely the right choice for the committee to make. No one, in a very strong Big10 conference, has come close to stopping them yet this year.”** _

  
Elio wakes up on Monday morning with Cole Porter stuck in his head.

_I love Paris every moment   Every moment of the year_

For centuries of artists, composers writers, and thinkers had fallen in love with that city and Elio had been no different.  And while, Ellington’s bluesy saxophone had prefered April in Paris and Surat had depicted, point by point, a park by the river in high summer, Elio always preferred Paris in the fall.

There is something so achingly beautiful about the grey skies and the trees shedding their yellow leaves along the grand path at the Jardin des Tuileries or the cobbles stones in Montmartre, shining wet with rain. It feels like the city, suddenly empty of its influx of summer guests, is returned to its residents, come fall, a bit weary and worn out but standing prouder than ever. In the two years Elio had lived and studied there, the days between September and the first snow fall sometime in December right as he was getting ready for his juried performance exams had been his favorite. Those were the days where Paris had most been a city to inspire him. To fall in love with a place and with with his station in life. With himself.

Chicago fall isn’t the horrible. It’s better than Italian fall at least which just feels like a summer day that was put away in the fridge to cool but not for long enough. He appreciates the maple trees and their punches of red around campus, the turn in the wind that comes off the lake, whipping and forewarning. Even though he would say he’s adjusted to life here, even going so far as to say that he’s happy, it’s still not the same. It never will be. But maybe that’s ok, too.

In time, maybe Elio can find Paris again. Not as a resident as that bridge to the small music world he inhabits is burned for him, but as a visitor, who will be wholly appreciative of what he’s missing by just passing through.

The skyline visible from his window looks dull and flat as he sits up to grab his phone. He lays back down as he checks the weather on his phone- a perfect 46 degrees degrees currently with a high of 58 and 20% chance of drizzle.  He likes a few pictures on Instagram, including a post Sam made at 3:30 in the morning from one of the basement practice room - Brahms F major sonata on the stand and a broken cake of rosin smashed on the floor. It’s his first semester of grad school and the poor guys is stressed with a capital S.  He makes a note to bring him something laced with sugar when he heads up to school today.

Then, snuggling deeper into the comfort of his bed for one final moment, Elio re-reads the texts Oliver had sent him last night.

 _Hope you had a better Sunday than me._  
_Massive fight with Chiara. UGH_

  
                                                                                                                                                            _Nothing a little sexual healing_  
_couldn't fix I'm sure_

                                                                                                                                                              _Or just some heavy petting in your case..._

Oliver had replied with an eye roll face followed by a middle finger flipped up in the air. Elio had been grinning like an idiot when he’d texted back a series of mushrooms, laughing out loud when Oliver had replied with about 15 middle fingers then an almost sweet:

                              _Night, E. See you in class in the am._

Elio likes the idea of Oliver thinking of him at the start and end of his days but he tries not to read into it, too much. After all, he’s gotten himself in trouble for misreading signs before.

He gets up, turns on the shower and examines his face in the mirror. He turns on his electric razor but skips over the scattered, dark hairs of his upper lip that have grown there over the weekend. It’s a daring look, but goes for it anyway, deciding he looks somewhere between the sleazy lead of some Godard film from the 70’s or some high school nerd just desperate to grow a 'stache. After his shower, he applies several pumps of cologne - neck, chest, below the belt. He selects his most elegant pants, trim but not tight and a pair of fawn suede shoes. He wraps himself in the most pretentiously large grey scarf he owns, twisting it around his neck and pairing it with a tweed jacket buttoned once around his waist.

If he can’t be in Paris this time of year, he’ll walk out into the suburban American morning wearing it instead.

The seat next to Oliver is open, as it usually in class these days. It’s not like either of them have to call “savsies” on that seat or anything, it’s just the rhythm of the class has fallen in such a way that the rest of their classmates know that Oliver and Elio sit together now.

He sits straight back and controlled, so different from the way Oliver lolls over the table, his elbows and knees spread wide. The undoing of his scarf fills the air between them with the smell of his cologne.

“Morning,” Oliver says, a flicker of surprise passing through his perfectly convivial greeting. Elio is quite sure he wasn’t expecting the look, nor the facial hair (minimal as it is).

“Hey,” he says, a bit breathless, a bit casual.

“This is…” Oliver gestures at his own mouth. “New.”

Luckily Dr. Ellison begins her lecture right then before Oliver stares at Elio’s upper lip any longer that people start to notice or Elio says something inflammatory like _I’ll let you taste it after, if you like._

It had only been last Friday when, in a fit of mid-class fantasizing, Elio had toed off his shoe and slipped his socked foot over to cover Oliver’s, sneaking up under the hem of his jeans, just as Dr. Ellison had posed a question to Oliver about Socrates’ concept of the philosopher king as discussed in The Republic. He’d timed it just so that Oliver couldn’t flinch, he couldn’t pull away. He would have to answer with total calm even as Elio continued toying with the skin of Oliver’s ankle. Elio hadn't looked his way, hadn’t even given him a fraction of a smirk as he kept his head bowed over his notebook, furiously taking notes.

Eventually, after Oliver had given a stumbling but astute answer, he’d turned away, shifting his legs out of Elio’s reach. The back of neck had burned a furious red.

Oliver had all but manhandled him into that unused study room down the hall from their class.

“What the hell, dude?” He’d said, closing the door firmly behind them. “You can’t fucking do that to me in class.”

“ _Dude_?” Elio had asked with a mocking snort. “Yeah, ok, _bruh_. Sorry.” He’d dropped his bag to the ground and reached for his own fly with undignified haste.

“I’m serious, Elio.”

The sternness in his voice had been enough for Elio to go from predatory to docile in a second. He’d stopped with the buttons of his jeans, leaving them half undone, awkwardly placing his hands on his waist before tucking them under his arms.

“I’m sorry,” he says, grumpy but sincere. “ I...I was over the line. I get it.”

“You think?”

“But you liked it, I could tell. You were blushing.”

“Well, yeah but there’s a time and a place and in the middle of a lecture is not it.”

“I know, I...” Elio had said quickly, more exasperated with himself than anything. “It’s just...Sometimes I see you and I just...”

He’d made some animalistic growling sound, grabbing at the air with both hands as he’d closed the gap between them. His fingers had made contact with Oliver’s abs, then the width of his waist. He’d felt the tension in Oliver slip away.

“That so, huh?” Oliver had asked with benevolent coolness. Elio had hummed his reply with a passive nod. Oliver’s words had been cool and tempered, a mandate, not a suggestion.  
  
“Lock the door then, Perlman.”

The shift in power had been heady rush to Elio’s veins. As had been the moment Elio had slipped to his knees and undone Oliver’s fly as Oliver had settled his hips back against a bank of tables and waited for Elio to get to work.

Elio loves it when this Oliver comes out to play, the gutsy, dominating captain who controls a team of testosterone addled jocks with poise and confidence on a weekly basis. The fact that this Oliver can exist in the same man as the shy, inexperienced but always eager to experience more lover Elio has he great honor to be with on a somewhat regular basis only endears him to Elio all the more. Duality, complexity, layered. Elio is quite sure he’ll never get bored with him.

They’d both satisfied any pent of sexual frustration they may have carried with them that day, the dated computers humming around them as Elio had come at the first taste of Oliver on his tongue.

This class though, Elio is a paragon of good behavior. So much so that Oliver spins in his chair at one point to give him a quizzical look. Elio merely looks back, bland and innocent. He likes to keep Oliver guessing too.

The professor ends the class with a reminder about the midterm at the end of the week. Some students groan or curse, as if they’d forgotten. Elio has little sympathy for them. It’s in the syllabus, afterall.

“So this fight with Chiara…” He asks as Oliver stuffs his things into his bag. The room is a clamor of backpack zippers and conversation. It seems a safe enough backdrop for the question.

Oliver takes one look at Elio and understands. “Oh. _No_ ,” he says firmly. “No, it wasn’t about that. She has no idea, I’m sure of it.”

How he can be so certain, Elio doesn’t know but he’s happy to go along with it.

“So what was it then?”

Oliver inhales through his mouth. “Kitchen tables?” They both laugh softly, standing and moving around the table to leave in tandem. “I have no idea honestly. It was one of those fights that starts off about one thing and ends up about something else, you know? Something way bigger.”

“But things are ok now, though?”

For some reason, the stability of their relationship seems important. Oliver has been with her his entire romantic life so there must be something redeemable about her. Besides it gives them a cover. Elio is quite sure Oliver would want nothing to do with him if there wasn’t a beard in the equation. A beard who happily broadcasts details of their relationship on social media with frequency. (Ok, so maybe Elio started following her on IG a few weeks ago. Who cares?)

“Yeah, I was able to talk her down eventually. But just smack me if I ever start taking about the four C’s of diamonds, ok?”

Elio spins at the top of the stairwell, his eyes going wide as he holds the door open for Oliver to pass with his back. “Wow. _That_ fight. Big steps. Ok then.”

Come spring, Oliver will graduate from college. He will get drafted. He will move to a new city to start what will undoubtedly be a long professional career. He will marry Chiara, whether that’s only a few months from now or many more chaste years but one day, barring some strange change in the society where a gay NFL player would suddenly be A-OK, that is what Oliver’s future holds.

Elio has known this, nearly right from the moment they met, and it shouldn't matter, but it does. It means that no matter what happens between them, what they experience, they have an expiration date.

So the fact that Oliver and Chiara had fought or argued or at least talked about getting married yesterday isn’t some sort of shocking wake up call. It’s just another reminder of what he’d already been thinking that morning. That some things are only allowed a face value. That he shouldn’t go looking for more than Oliver will ever be able to give.

“Speaking of big steps,” Oliver says as they exit the classics building and into the muted sunlight of an overcast day. “I’ve been practicing.”

He likes Oliver’s swerve in the conversation, bringing it back to what they are a duo are all about. Two men who met on Grindr cause they wanted some action not cause they were looking for their soulmate. It's safer, more familiar ground and even in the busy walkways of class change over Elio puts on the charm.

He walks backwards, a bounce back in his step. “Have you now?” He watches the way Oliver eyes the crowds around them wearily and throws him a rope. “You mean you’ve,” he clears his throat pointedly. “Been practicing that method for memorizing irregular verbs, right?”

“Yes...exactly,” Oliver says, catching on a bit more slowly than Elio would have suspected. Maybe just the thought of what he’d _really_ been practicing had been enough to leave his brain a bit woozy. It certainly had done something to the tightness of Elio’s pants.

“How many times have you gone through with it?”

“A few.”

Elio asks for clarification with lift of his eyebrow. “A few times isn’t going to cut it on the exam.”

“Three times.” Elio gives him an approving but not overly impressed look. “But the last time was, ah...double.” Oliver rubs his pointer and middle finger across his brow and Elio could climb the all 6’5” of him right then and there and devour him.

“So, I was thinking, maybe we could study for midterms together?”

Now it’s Elio’s to be unsure if he’s picking up on all of Oliver’s doublespeak. He stops walking, steps in just a bit closer and drops his voice. “Wait, do you mean actually study or…”

Oliver laughs. “Probably wouldn’t hurt to do a bit of both, right?”

Elio’s heart is pounding as he steps back and looks up at the guileless look on Oliver’s face.

“I’m ready,” he says after a small shrug and a warm exhale.

“Tonight, then?” Elio asks, breathless.

Oliver’s face pinches. “I told Chiara we’d hang tonight.”

“‘Course. Tuesday? No wait, Tuesday doesn’t work. I have this masterclass thing that will go late, I know it.”

“And Wednesday I told coach I’d stay after practice to go through video for Purdue on Saturday.”

“Besides I have my orchestration midterm the next morning. Thursday night then?”

“Thursday works.” Oliver’s smile is delicate and darling.

Other students in a hurry to get to their next class filter around them as they stand there, smiling wordlessly at each other, totally blocking the path across the green. Some giving them bizarre looks but Elio couldn’t care less.

On Thursday he and Oliver will sleep together for the first time. He will be the first and only person to know Oliver in that fiercely private way. With that thought in his head, every doom and gloom thought he’s had in the last twelve hours about how deep he can go with Oliver somehow floats away and he finds himself jumping in with both feet, feeling like he’s flying high off the edge of some cliff face where he can’t even see the bottom of what’s below, exhilarated, out of control but not afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little nod to French Timmy and all that entails, like it or not. Next chapter is a big one, in every sense of the word, so patience is key. :)


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit a lot happens in this chapter.
> 
> Like sex.
> 
> And Paris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, my lovelies! xoxo

_**College Football Playoff Top 5** _  
_**1\. Northwestern University** _  
_**2\. University of Georgia** _  
_**3\. University of Southern California** _  
_**4\. Notre Dame University** _  
_**5\. Ohio State University** _  
_**Tuesday, October 23, 2018** _

  
Oliver wakes to a brush of cool evening air on his face and the smell of cigarettes.

He’s not really slept, just rested in a sated daze for some indeterminate amount of time that was only a handful of minutes but felt like forever. He rolls from one side to another, noting the heaviness in his limbs. It feels so very different from the post-game, metabolic exhaustion that only really seems to get better by a soak in an ice bath and some work on the table with one of the team PT’s. But this feeling he likes, subtle but juicier. There is warmth across his shoulders and in his biceps, a slight tremble at the back of his thighs, the distinct ache, like a bruise faded enough that you want to touch to see if the tenderness remains, between his ass cheeks.

The electric white lights of the Chicago skyline are miles away but they feel close here on the 18th floor, invited into Elio’s bedroom with his unobstructed view. One window is cracked, slid open on its track just enough for him to blow the smoke through.

Elio sits, naked but for a sheet drawn loosely to his waist over his propped-up knees. The full expanse of his back is facing Oliver as he turns his head into profile and taps the end of a cigarette into a makeshift ashtray that rests on sill, an NU coffee mug that Oliver imagines still has the dregs from this morning’s brew in the bottom.

Those same lights that cast a sulfur yellow hue across the broken cloud cover outside seem to make Elio’s already pale skin even more ethereal, iridescent and silvery. Alabaster and mother of pearl. Oliver has loved that skin from the moment he saw Elio’s profile picture, black and white and filtered and small on his phone. He loves it all the more now that he has worshiped it with his tongue, his teeth, felt it bead with sweat and shiver with goose bumps, become flushed and rosy above him.

Oliver drags his fingers, feather soft, over Elio’s ribs.

Elio flinches and turns to look down at Oliver, unaware he was being watched.

“Sorry,” He says, exhaling a large puff of smoke. “I haven’t had one in weeks but it just seemed fitting. Considering.” He shrugs with a cliche smirk.

Elio reaches for his coffee mug ready to put it out as quickly as he can, a nod to his knowledge that Oliver doesn’t like to be around unhealthy substances, but instead Oliver props himself on his elbow and covers Elio’s hand with his own. He matches the way Elio holds the cigarette gently between his thumb and first finger. He takes it and immediately puts it to his lips.

Leaned back, eyes narrowed, Oliver inhales deeply. It’s not his first cigarette ever, but his first in a very, very long time and the nicotine rush just adds another layer of bliss. As does the completely bemused look on Elio’s face.

“Just don’t tell Coach,” he says as he hands it back. Elio takes one last quick drag before putting it out with several jabs. The small hiss that accompanies it proves Oliver’s suspicions true.

“I think there’s plenty I won’t tell your coach.”

After they’d made plans to meet at Elio’s on Thursday to “study” (and texted earlier that day to set the time) Oliver realized he had two choices on how to face the night that was to come. He could let Thursday become THURSDAY. This great monolithic thing where something potentially life altering was going to happen. He could fret for hours about how it would feel. How he’d perform. How it might change him, or change them, in the aftermath.

Or he could just let it be what it is: the chance for another night with Elio where they’ll end up doing something normal and intimate and hot and something they both want.

Elio had texted him Wednesday night.

                                                                                                                _It’s really not that different from_  
_what we’ve already done, you know_

_Same appendage. Different orifice._

_That’s easy for you to say._  
_It’s not your orifice_

Elio had sent several laugh/crying emoji and Oliver could imagine him in his bed, a grin on his face, determined to torture him.

                                                                                                                              _Nothing happens that you don’t want_  
_to happen_

_Besides, I told you I’d make it good for you_

God, sometimes he wishes he didn’t always have to delete Elio’s texts.

Bolstered by the whole “consent is sexy” vibe that Elio is promoting and his own desire that’s been simmering away all week to finally “do it”, Oliver had arrived at Elio’s place bearing his backpack full of half a semester’s worth of notes on Plato and a brown paper bag, stapled at the top and wrapped in another plastic bag full of Chinese take out.

He’d kissed Elio quickly on the cheek once the door was shut, exuding a lightness that had taken them both by surprise.

It’s not that he hadn’t felt nervous, just that it had felt completely different from any kind of nervousness he’d experienced before. This hadn’t been pre-game jitters. It wasn’t anxiety or uncertainty. Just pure expectation. A buzz under his skin sped through his veins on waves of adrenaline all the while being held up by the slow, pulsing want he feels whenever Elio is near.

They had managed to study for a good hour or so, their notes and books scattered across Elio’s kitchen table along with discarded chopsticks and soy sauce packets. Watching Elio’s beautiful mouth form those ancient Grecian vowels, reading key passages of text for emphasis, had been some form of hypnotic foreplay.

Unable to take it anymore, he’d leaned across the table and kissed him, finding Elio’s mouth unctuous, almost greasy. He loved the tang of salt on his tongue, the supple way his their touched collided. Oliver would have been happy for Elio to have taken him right then and there but instead, Oliver had pulled away, enjoying the slightly baffled and blissed-out look on Elio’s face as he’d said with a small giggle, “Umm, right, what was I saying?” as he’d attempted to resume his recitation.

Once their heads had felt sufficiently stuffed of Plato, Oliver had helped Elio in the kitchen cleaning the now empty cartons, laughing softly and appreciating how Elio was giving him every opportunity to stall, to change his mind. But Oliver wasn’t about to go back now.

He’d come up behind Elio who was washing some glasses with extra attention and pressed his chest to Elio’s back. He’d tucked his chin over Elio’d shoulder grabbing onto his own wrists to keep him in place. “Hey,” he’d said, swaying slightly back and forth. Elio had shifted his head sideways, exposing this neck in a way that was entirely biteable so Oliver had with lip covered teeth.

“Come on,” Elio had whispered softly.

They hadn’t talked much after that.

Unhurried but eager, they’d tumbled back onto Elio’s bed. Through kisses they’d pulled at buttons and waistbands. Shared smiles as socks were pulled off, resulting in awkward angles and jabby knees. But every time necessity would pull them apart, they would crash back together, hungrier, needier, and closer.

Elio hadn’t asked permission this time. Simply grabbed the lube from the bedside table, spread it liberally across his hand and between the cleft of Oliver’s ass and pressed not one but two of those elegant fingers inside.  
  
“God, you’re still so tight,” Elio had said in a way that let Oliver know that was very much a good thing.

Oliver had been on top, then, knees straddling Elio’s hips. His arms had born the brunt of his weight as Elio had begun that incredible drag, the in and out, the opening and closing. Oliver had felt Elio against every length of his insides, finding places deeper and more wonderful than before.

His cock had rested next to Elio’s on his belly and he’d wondered if this was how it would happen. If Elio would just shift his hips, press up and be inside him. His whole body had flushed at the thought of just how much he would like that. Riding Elio slow. Being the one in control.

But before he could suggest it, Elio had pulled out his fingers and rolled them both over with ease.

From his back, Oliver had watched as Elio worked open a condom. A beautiful flush had taken over his features, his lips parted and pink, stoic with concentration as he rolled the latex all the way to the root. He’d added a bit more lube, especially around the tip, hissing as he applied it, his cock clearly over-sensitive and ready.

Oliver has scrolled through the porn blogs on Tumblr countless times. He’s watched enough videos on RedTube. He knows how two men do this: one man pressed face first into the mattress, couch or floor, his ass high in the air or both on their knees, bodies angled away, fingers rough, hardly touching.

He’d rolled over, mentally preparing himself for what was coming next.

“Wait, where are you going?” Elio had asked with a hint of amusement as he caught the underside of Oliver’s shoulder before it hit the sheet.

The pressure on his shoulder was enough to convince Oliver to turn back around.

“I want you where I can see you, where I can kiss you,” Elio had said, smiling ruefully, like part of part of him was breaking at the thought that Oliver assumed sex between two men had to be void of any tenderness. “I want you right here. Ok?”

“Ok,” Oliver had agreed.

And with that, Elio had hooked his elbow under Oliver’s knee, tucked Oliver’s body back against itself and used his other hand to line his cock up, pressing past the softened ring of muscle, sliding in and in and in, slow and even, all in one graceful motion.

It had felt like a shot of ice up the length of his spine as Elio’s hip bones hit the back of his thighs. It stung, sudden, full and raw.

“Fuck,” he’d choked.

“Too much?” Elio had asked immediately.

“No. Maybe….” He’d slapped his hand onto Elio’s buttock, holding him in place when he’d tried to pull out. “But no. _No_.”

“Take as long as you need. I’m good right here,” Elio’s words had been little more than patient breath. “Though, fair warning, I could probably come just from this. Feels... _ridiculous_.”

Elio had exhaled slowly, disciplined, but his hips had shifted with just tiniest bit of unintentional motion. That was enough to send Oliver’s head back, a long moan, helpless and high, forming at the back of his throat. He’d tightened the muscles of his ass experimentally, finding it ok.

“Fuck,” Elio had sobbed, doing his best not to collapse. “I definitely will if you do that again.”

“Well, that would be anticlimactic,” Oliver had said and done it again anyway.

Elio had whimper-laughed, his curls brushing against Oliver’s jaw. “You’re such a little shit.”

Oliver had laughed too, finding it strange to have felt so carefree in that moment of ultimate exposure.

After a few more moments his body adjusted and he’d rolled his hips carefully once. Elio’s breath had stuttered. The second time Elio had met the motion at its apex with a gentle kant of his own hips. A rush of pleasure had shot up Oliver’s spine.

What followed was nothing less than what Oliver would call, though he has no basis for comparison, amazing sex. Elio was delicate but powerful, trembling with restraint yet full of control, completely responsive as he’d let Oliver set the pace. They’d both muttered words of encouragement and praise, only stopping occasionally to fill each others mouth with tongues, grab a hasty breath through clenched teeth, catch the other’s eyes and smile.

Elio had grabbed a pillow at one point and placed it under the small of Oliver’s back. The change of angle and the fact that now his cock was sandwiched between their bellies changed everything.

“Holy fuck that feels so good.”

“Told you it would,” he’d said. And even through Oliver’s clench-closed eyes, he had seen Elio’s devilish smile, the wide one with his tongue twisted between his teeth. Oliver had bucked up dragging a choked cry out of Elio’s throat, triumphant.

It was better than he’d imagined it. Not just the incredible feel of Elio inside him, but the lightness that resulted in his head, his mind going blank like a high, the happiness he could literally feel rolling off Elio in waves.

So much of Oliver’s life is a facade, false and hidden. He spends so much time wrapped in pads, both proverbial and literal, to protect himself from his own lies. But some people are worth letting your defences down for, deconstructing every last one of them so you can be completely free.

In Elio - randomly, miraculously - he’s found such a person.

He’d wrapped his arms around Elio’s back, held on tight and let everything go. He’d filled Elio’s bedroom with sounds and words at volumes he’d never dared to before. He’d folded his body in tight so Elio could piston his hips, hard and fast and uneven by the end. Tension, hot and tingling, had built in every muscle of his body, waiting for the pending explosion.

“I’m wanna come with you. You close?” He’d panted.

“Yeah.” A rhythmic breath later.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t stop.”

Had Elio’s neighbor’s heard them as they called each other’s name, laced with every fucking expletive they both know, as they came? Probably.

Had either cared, as they fell to the bed, breathless and sweaty, kissing each other with dopy smiles? Nope.

Oliver takes a deep cleansing breath, as if to seal the memory of what they’ve just shared and sits up. Elio watches, waiting for him to wince, to show any sign of remorse, so he makes sure he doesn’t. Instead he kisses the crown of Elio’s shoulder before resting his head there, smiling contentedly as Elio nuzzles into the spiky hair at his temple with his nose.

There is no awkwardness here in the afterglow as they sit side by side in the gentle darkness of Elio’s bedroom staring out at the city together.

“When my dad convinced me to come to school here, he told me it was a school in Chicago. He’s such a liar. But I figured I could exchange one city center for another. The _dix-neuvième_ for the Windy city.”

Oliver shivers at Elio’s exquisite French.

“Imagine my dismay when I’d ended up here,” he spreads his arms wide. “In suburbia.”

“Oh come on, Evanston’s not some sleepy little village. Trust me, I grew up in one of those and I know this one ain’t. Besides, look at your view.” Elio does. “I mean, would you rather be the king up in one of those tall towers.” He points towards the John Hancock building with its distinctive shape and matching spires on the top, red airplane lights flashing out of sync. “Whose only views are the drab, ramshackle huts of his kingdom or the pauper who simply needs to look out his window at the castle on the hill for a glimpse of total splendor.”

Elio stares at him drolly. “If I have the choice between being a wealthy landowner versus a serf whose only purpose in life was to give fealty to their lord, _obviously_ I’m going to chose the first.”

They both laugh as Elio shoves him lightly, Oliver’s point obviously made and appreciated.

Then Elio crosses his arms, elbows on his knees and rests his chin on the resulting perch. Doing so pulls him away from Oliver, putting several inches of space between them, but Oliver gives them to him, realizing he might need them.

As always happens when Paris is mentioned, Elio’s mood has turned inwardly contemplative in a self-protective kind of way.

“Do you still wish you were there?”

“Sometimes.” Elio answers quickly enough for Oliver to know he’s being completely honest. Then he looks over at Oliver, blinks softly. “Not right now, though.”

That is a modicum of relief.

“Look, if you ever, you know, want to talk about it...”

“Oh, I’ve talked plenty. My parents and shrinks and administrators and lawyers…”

“Lawyers? Jesus, Elio," Oliver says, bewildered.  The time is now. He can’t speculate any longer. He has to know. “What happened?”

  
With small shake of his and eyes cast upward Elio says, “You don’t want to know, trust me.”

He reaches for another cigarette and angrily bites the filter between his front teeth.

Oliver scoots closer, pressing their bodies close again. “Yes, I do.” Elio’s lighter clicks but doesn’t catch. He tries shaking it but to no avail. “I want to know everything there is to know about you.” Oliver cups the far side of Elio’s face turning it to face him. He waits until Elio lifts his eyes to meet Oliver’s. It takes him a second. “The good and the bad.”

Elio’s clearly not prepared for that offer. So Oliver waits for him to adjust. Just as Elio had waited with stillness for Oliver’s body to let him in, Oliver waits for Elio to let him in too. Into his trust, his confidence. He cards his fingers gently through Elio’s curls, a jumbled array on top of his head as Elio’s eyes scan his face, unsure.

Oliver can see the moment Elio’s willpower breaks as his face becoming lax and childlike, the line of his spine collapsing into a bowed curve.  "I'm not a good person, Oliver."

"Stop that," Oliver scoffs.

“I had a affair with my teacher.”

Of all the things he thought Elio was about to say, this was not it. His hand falls away from Elio’s face, totally stunned.

“Seriously?”

“It’s not what it sounds like, though, ok?” He asserts. “It wasn’t physical. At least, not sexual.”

He says it like he regrets that fact.

“But there were looks.”

He gazes deep into Oliver’s eyes, his lashes dropping low and flirty. It makes Oliver’s stomach flip.

“And touches.”

He caresses Oliver’s cheek with the back of his hand, then down his neck and over his collarbone.

“Words that made me think…”

He trails away. Oliver watches him roll the cigarette back and forth in his fingers then settles his hand at the small of Elio’s back, a simple touch to let him know he’s here when he’s ready.

“I don’t know what it’s like with coaches,” Elio says eventually. “I was never good or committed enough to sports as a kid to do much more than warm the benches. So they never noticed me much but these teachers at the _Conservatoire_...you develop a kind of relationship that’s more like a mentor, a master and his protege. It's always one on one. You and them alone for hours at a time in a music studio working on your art. Giving up your soul to the music. Your entire identity wrapped up in what you’re creating. It’s not just some game, you know? Where either you win or you don’t. It’s more nuanced than that.”

Oliver nods obligingly, taking no offense.

“These teachers, the best of them at least, they learn how to pull at the most secret parts of you, force it out onto the page into dots and lines that mean so much more to you. Only for them to pick it apart, critique it. Judge it and berate you when it falls short.” He jabs at Oliver’s chest with a finger. “But then they’ll turn around and praise you, leaving you totally raw and confused and emotionally vulnerable so _they_ can be the ones to pick you up and remake you. It’s fucked up, right?”

Elio is wildly intense now that the damn has broken. Eyes focused, gestures pointed. It’s a terrifying and heartbreaking mix of regret and pain and adoration and unresolved anger.

“Yeah,” Oliver agrees. He’s heard rumors about coaches that work like that too, use mind games to motivate their players. It’s part of what he’s always appreciated about his own Coach. He’s straight forward and works from the heart.

“And yet,” Elio continues. “There is something completely intoxicating about it. To have that kind of attention from someone so accomplished? So well respected?” He shakes his head. “It makes you feel like the most important person in the world to them.”

Oliver’s thumb makes slow circles at the base of his spine. He pretends to ignore the glint in his eyes.

“Of course, he had a reputation,” he says, with bitter sadness.

It’s the first time the gender of the teacher has been defined.  It's not like it really matters to Oliver, but it helps to clarify the picture.

“Especially with boys like me, talented and young.  But I thought...Well,” he laughs coldly. “I didn’t want to hear it. I was sure I was the exception to the rule. That it was just a matter of time before we…” He trails away, as if it’s too painful or too embarrassing to say. “When it turned out I most certainly _wasn’t_ , that I was just another in a long line... I didn’t handle it well.”

“What did you do?” Oliver asks gently.

“I reported him. Went straight to the head of the school, the administrative board. Hashtag ‘Me too’ was about to explode at the Paris Conservatory.”

“Well, good!” Oliver says feeling sick at the thought of it and fiercely protective. “No way he should have ever treated you like that.”

“No, Oliver, not good.” He rubs at the space between his brows with his fingers. “I should have just kept my fucking mouth shut.”

“Why? So he could just do it to someone else?”

“Because I made it about 8000 times worse.”

“For whom?”

“For everyone."  His chest is heaving.  "Because when I told them that he’d made advances, they made assumptions.”

He waits for it to click for Oliver.

“They thought you’d slept together?“

“And I didn’t correct them.” His voice is hollow, a pitiful admittance. “I lied, in fact. Repeatedly. Made shit up. Places and occurrences.” He says with a shuddering breath, like this one fact out of all of it has burned him the most. “But I was hurt, you know? Embarrassed. I was pissed off and wanted vindication...”

He wipes brusquely at his eyes, shakes his head forcefully as if to wipe away all emotion there like one does a rough design on an Etch-a-sketch. He blows out a long puff of air.

“My parents hired lawyers, _expensive_ lawyers. It was getting harder and harder for the school to keep new of it out of the press. The other students would barely even look at me because I’d had the audacity to complain when ‘everybody knew what he was like’. But then they brought him in on it and the truth came out. Nothing had happened between us. Not really,” he amends as Oliver tries to contest. “It was all in my head, he said.  So then there were threats of defamation of character lawsuits on his behalf, meetings behind closed doors where his lawyers questioned the merit of my character, brought up my sexuality and my past partners as if that was part of it somehow. My parents were ready to sue, take on this 200 year old institution for my sake.” He gestures idly at himself, as if overwhelmed by his parents gesture. “But by then, I just didn’t want fight him anymore. It was too much. I just wanted to fade away. _Alors_ ,” He gestures, an elegant twist of his wrists like a magician’s assistant revealing the trick. He indicates the apartment around him, the city beyond, their night.  “ _Voila_.”

Oliver feels completely drained having listened to Elio’s story but relieved to know.  Though it does make his life in the closet seems oddly banal.  He can only imagine how Elio must be feeling to have relived it all for Oliver’s sake but his eyes are blank and wet, so he doesn’t have to wonder too far.

“He was still in the wrong, though. You know that right?”

“Yeah, I know. During the meeting when I was expelled, the director of the school told me as much.  That if I’d just told the truth from the beginning they probably would have fired him and I would still be a student there.  Do you think I'm awful?”

He wipes at his stuffy nose and looks at Oliver, open mouthed.

A line pops into Oliver’s head, from Ovid’s _Ars Amatoria_. It had resonated with him when he’d read it in high school as he'd battled his own demons, justifying all the lies he was spreading in his own life just for the sake of his game.

“Militiae species amor est.”

Elio blinks, his brow furrowing softly as he wipes away a tear with his thumb. “Did you just quote Ovid at me?”

“Seems fitting, considering your proclivity for putting Ovid in the weirdest of places,” Oliver says with a shrug. For the first time in a while, Elio smirks.

“Love is a kind of warfare,” He translates, thoughtfully. “I don’t know…I don’t know if loved him. Not like you should love someone, any way.”

“But he mattered.”

Elio nods. “Even if I didn’t matter to him.”

Oliver kisses him lingering on the temple and Elio leans into the touch. Together, they fall to the mattress, adjusting pillows and pulling the comforter up tight around their faces. Their legs slot into place and their arms and hands fit together.

“I haven’t told anyone all that before,” he says softly. “No one knows besides my parents. And my lawyer,” he adds with a snort.

“Not even Marzia?”

He shakes his head, eyes already starting to drift. “No, she’s a part of that world, you know? And it’s a small one.”

“Well, I’m happy to be your outsider, then.”

He perks up just enough to ask, “Can you stay?”

To leave now seems positively cruel and yet, “You know I can’t.

“Probably for the best,” he says after a low, unhappy grumble. “You take up more than half my bed.”

Oliver flexes every limb that he has wrapped around Elio and pulls him closer. “But I make up for it cause I’m a total snuggler.”

“Why am I not surprised?” he mumbles, head tucked deeply into his pillow and crook of Oliver’s neck.

“I’ll stay until you fall asleep, ok?”

The duvet rustles as Elio nods, his breath already evening out into a shallow rhythm.

 _One day,_ Oliver thinks. _One day I’ll fall asleep with you and never leave._

*

Elio wakes sometime near dawn. His alarm won’t go off for hours yet but the spot on the bed where Oliver had been is cold. Part of him is disappointed Oliver hadn’t just accidentally fallen asleep but that would probably have cause more trouble than it would be worth.

He rolls over, happy for a few more hours rest, but then notices the way his phone is propped in a very obvious way on his bedside table. A blue indicator light flashes, signaling an email or text.

He reaches out from under the warm covers and grabs the device, his interest peaked when he sees an email from Oliver. The subject header is blank but there is an attachment at the bottom.

 **For your eyes only...though I *may* have kept a copy too.**  
**Thank you for everything tonight xx**

Elio’s heart flutters. He taps the screen with his thumb, opening the attachment.

He can hardly believe what he sees.

It’s a picture of them. Together. In his bed from just hours ago.

One of Oliver’s broad arms is wrapped around his sleeping body, the other holds the phone above the bed. He’d used the flash to capture the look of pure bliss on his face where it’s tucked against Elio’s curls, as if breathing him in.  His eyes are closed, a gentle lilt to the corner of his mouth, savoring this moment.

Elio isn’t sure he’s even seen anything more tender. Felt more safe or adored just by looking at a picture of himself he hadn’t even been conscious to remember taking.  
  
He flops onto his back with a stupid grin, his arms falling wide. Sleep is the last thing on his mind now.

God, he is completely fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am tired as fuck right now. This chapter was SUPER hard to write. And it's not at all as good as I wanted it but hey...it's like 4500 words so...*fanfares*


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after
> 
> And are you ready for some football??

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU 
> 
> Just...
> 
> THANK YOU. You all bring me so much joy and inspiration and motivation and HOPE. xx

_**Friday October, 27** _  
_**8:47am** _  
_**Welcome home, Wildcats! Follow the link for all the weekends’ events including info about tickets and parking for @NUFBfamily game on Saturday! bit.ly/2MTo0pM TGSatNU @NorthwesternU #homecoming2018 #gocatsgo** _

Elio sees Oliver before Oliver sees him.

He emerges from between two buildings onto the brick path at the far end of the quad. He’s decked in a thick purple hoodie, sporting the team colors. His formidable frame stands out above the rest of the student body, towering and strong. He walks with asuredness befitting a man of his notoriety on campus: his prowess, his looks, his humility, his smarts. Oliver really is total mensch.

Seated on a bench halfway to the classics building, two cups of Starbucks coffee warming his hands, Elio drags his tongue across his lower lip, pulling it into his mouth as he considers how he’s the only human on the entire planet who knows Oliver the way Elio does now after last night. He may have only been acquainted with Oliver for a few months, but Elio knows the prowess his body is capable of in more fiercly intimate ways than any of those who analyze his every move on the playing field. He knows the truth of his inner soul and the way his id and superego, in the Freudian sense, battle to keep truth hidden to all. All but him. Elio knows the digital picture that burns in both their pockets.

And now Oliver knows him too. That rusty, shameful corner of himself that he’d sworn to himself he’d keep hidden and shunned, left behind on a different continent, but follows him still. Elio opening up the way he had brought them closer than any amount of sex possibly could. The fact they both happened over the course of the same evening made the intensity of both acts all the more powerful.  And cemented any connection Elio may have been uncertain of.

Next to Oliver walks a fair skinned black man of similar athletic build, wearing clothes of identical purple. Before they part ways, the man taps Oliver on the shoulder and they claps hands, fist to fist, pulling each other into a quick, shoulder tap hug. It’s very palsy, just lads being lads. Though the entire gesture is laced with sweet affection of close friends, it’s still very typical heterosexual dudebro and it makes Elio’s eyes roll. Oliver plays the roll with terrifying conviction.

He stands as Oliver turns his way. He quickly takes note him and jogs a few steps, a lazy shuffle that only brings him fractionally closer faster than simple walking would have. But it’s adorable and Elio’s mouth contorts into a twisted smirk as he attempts to reign in the wide grin that he feel glowing within him.

He offers up one of the coffees, holding it out at arms length.

“I took a guess.”

“Soy, no sugar?”

Elio cocks his head to the side, scrunching his face and then holds out the other cup. “Not bad for a second guess.”

(Because clearly the black, two sugars he’d lead with was way off. But at least he now has a coffee he’ll find palatable. No sugar? No thanks.)

“For real?” Elio nods, encouraging him to take it. So he does, swallowing with a grateful sound.

“So, should I be jealous?”  Elio lifts his chin to where he can just make out the figure of Oliver’s retreating friend.  

“What?  Wait  _ that _ ?”  Oliver, says with genuine concern in his voice.  “No, that’s-that’s just Des. My best friend? I told you about him.”  

“Oliver, I was only joking.”  Elio says, touching his shoulder lightly to calm him down. His palm skates off his shoulder blade.

It's a nothing touch for two men who shared what they did the night before but it's borderline for broad daylight, and Elio knows that.  Surely, no one saw that, right? Even so they both they both scan around quickly, looking for someone they might have clued off.

Wordlessly, they move up the steps and into towards the assumed safety of the building.

“I take it that means you make it to practice?” Elio asks, holding open the door for Oliver.

“Barely.” He rushes to catch the elevator that had just opened to let some students from an 8am section out. Once they are alone, sealed behind the sliding doors, Olive continues. “Needless to say, I was pretty, exhausted this morning so, this will help,” he lifts his coffee.  Then with a sweet smiles, "Thank you.”

Then they’re alone again. Elio considers the travel time of this ancient elevator from the first to the fourth floor and whether it’s worth the risk, or the stress it might cause Oliver, to sneak in a quick makeout sesh. The way Oliver fidgets with the buckle of his bag, eyes flitting between Elio and the numbers above the door, makes him wonder if Oliver’s thinking the same. In the end, Elio leans against the far wall, crossing his feet at his ankles with a satisfied smirk that he hopes says, All in good time.

“I should thank you, too, I suppose. For your little gift you left this morning.”

Oliver beams. “You liked that?”

“Um, yes?” Elio says, sarcastically lippy.

“Good, I just, I was worried you might think it was creepy or something.”

“No, definitely not creepy.” _One of the most romantic things anyone’s ever done to me actually_ , he thinks. “And don’t worry, it’s safely hidden away in a sub folder of my phone with boring pictures of ruins from a trip I took to Israel with my dad three years ago.  Our little secret. Well, ours and the cloud.”

Paris Elio would never have tolerated an entanglement with someone as deep in the closet as Oliver. He has always been open about his sexuality. Why would he want to be with someone unwilling to be honest about theirs? And yet he gets it, in Oliver’s case. This isn’t about self loathing, just protecting a dream.

And Rome Elio wouldn’t have dared stick around when such obvious feelings, while not being spoken, are most certainly being felt by both parties. He was still reeling from the imagined romance with his teacher, smarting and bitter, and in no way interested in anything with consequence. But here he is, buying Oliver coffee the morning after his first time. Making good choices about the invalidity of elevators as hookup locations just so the world outside never knows.

Like he’d said that morning: totally fucked.

Speaking of...

“How are you feeling by the way? Ya know?” He gives his nether regions a pointed look.

Oliver shifts on his feet, standing up a little taller then answers. “Yeah, I’m totally fine. Though my trainer did ask why I wasn’t getting quite so deep into my squats this morning.”

“He didn’t.” Elio laughs. “What did you say?”

Oliver puffs up his chest with bogus machismo. “Told him I took a really hard pounding last night.”

Elio’s jaw drops.

“On the practice field, _obviously_ ,” He says, all smooth, as he slides in close to Elio, his hand covering Elio’s hip. If the the elevator door hadn’t announced its arrival with a soft ping right at that moment, the 4th floor of the classics department would certainly have gotten a full view of Elio pressed against the wall, Oliver’s hands cupping his ass and his tongue in his mouth.

“You.” Elio points at him, shoving him playfully away as the door opens. “You are, the the actual worst, you know that? The fucking worst.”

They tumble out into the hall, shoulders brushing, bodies jostling. They don’t bother to cover up their tear-inducing laughter or the sunny looks they toss each others way.

“Morning, boys.”

“Ciao, papa!”

The glittering joy he’d felt with Oliver easily extends to his father, who is waiting with a rather tall pile of folders and books in his arms for the elevator. Elio flings an arm around him, kisses him blithely on his bearded cheek and spins them in a boisterous circle.

“Don’t you have a midterm now?” His father asks, clapping a hand on his stack of books to make sure the citricifical force of their greeting doesn’t knock them all to the floor.

“ _Si, si. Andiamo insime._ ” His Italian is rushed and breezy and his father gives him a quizzical look. Has it really been so long since his father has seen him happy that he regards an open display of the emotion with skepticism?

Luckily, Oliver comes to his aid before his father starts asking if he’s drugs again or something.

“Did you get my email with the ticket link, professor?”

His father turns to face Oliver, small, curt movements to match his petite stature. “I did, thank you, and in the President’s Box, too. What a treat!”

“I’m just happy you’ll be there. It’s always nice to know you have someone cheering for you in the crowd.”

“Don’t you usually have about 45 thousand people doing that?”

“Well, true.  But you know what I mean.”

His father pats Oliver’s arm sweetly. The two of them, unbeknownst to Elio, have clearly developed a very nice relationship as advisor and advisee. It feels like joint stamps of approval.

“So there’s a game here?” Elio chimes in. “Tomorrow?”

A slow, amused smile spreads across Oliver’s face. “It’s Homecoming Weekend, Elio. Of course there’s a game.”

“You... couldn’t get another ticket could you?”

Elio can feel the looks to total bewilderment coming at him from either side. While his father’s look feels like total confusion, Oliver’s feels like heartfelt wonder.

“You want to come to my game?”

“Well, it’s about time I fully embrace all aspects of my American university experience, right?”

“Yeah, no, sure. I’m sure I can finagle another.”

“Great!” His dad says like he’s elated this plan has just been hatched even if he doesn’t understand it all. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning. 12pm kick off right?” Mr. Perlman asks as he gets on the elevator.

“With that anthem at 11:45.”

“We’ll be there and good luck on your midterm,” he calls as the doors slide closed.

“I could kiss you right now.” Oliver’s voice is hot in his ear as he brushes past, heading towards their classroom.

“It’s just a football game, Oliver.”

Oliver turns, walking backwards a few paces as he shakes his head. “No, it’s not.”

*

Just over 24 hours later Elio feels very lucky to have secret lovers in high places.

Weather is total shit, cold, rainy. Even so the stadium is full of these crazy fans ready to cheer on their team. If it weren’t for the temperature controlled comfort of the President’s Box, there is no way Elio would have come, no matter how infatuated he might be with #24 in purple and white.

His father has brought a friend, some new colleague from the art history department Elio’s never met before. He goes back and forth between laughing, loud and cheerful with him, and excitedly explaining exactly what’s going on to Elio.

He identifies the important people, dressed in suits and drinking complementary cocktails, on the other side of the room. “That’s the provost, and I believe the one is blue is from the Board of Regents.” He pulls Elio away from his phone where Marzia had been texting him frantically, ( _I’m in row 45. It’s fucking freezing! Is the box amazing? Do love it already?_ ) when the marching band is about to take the field for the pre-game show. Elio recognizes a few faces in from the School of Music, even in their plumed hats and ridiculous uniforms that look like a cross between soldiers and clowns. They sound pretty good though, he has to admit.

His father preps him, makes comments about the various refs dressed in black and white, the coaches with their headsets.

“There’s Oliver,” he says, pointing to the far side of field where a man of Oliver’s height and build throws a ball back and forth with a fellow teammate. He’s too far away to recognize by his features but Elio knows it’s him simply by the way his body moves.

Elio tries to stay invested as the teams take the field but it seems nonsensical.

“Why are we kicking it away if we won the coin toss?”

“Why do they keep running into the backs of their own players? They’re not going anywhere.”

Each question is met by a patient explanation from his dad but even so Elio feels his interest wane when the opposing teams kicks the ball between the large metal beams reaching skyward like a pair of inverted eighth notes. (“A field goal,” his dad says. “Worth three points.” He sighs heavily when Elio says, “3’s an arbitrary number, isn’t it?”)

But then the sides switch and Northwestern has their first chance to move the ball. Oliver takes the field and Elio sits forward slightly, leaning closer to the pane of glass separating them from the field. Oliver  cups his hands, blows on the them once, the crouches in the middle of line of his teammates. From high above, but coming through the speakers that filter in the crowd noise at a controllable level, Elio hears him call out, shouting once, twice, then a rapid cadence.

Instead of the boring “up the gut” plays their opposition had stuck with, Oliver steps back, bouncing light on spread feet. Before Elio even realizes it, the ball is thrown, arcing perfectly high over the heads of everyone on the field. It’s recipient catches it mid-stride, having barely looked over his shoulder to see if the ball was there. He stumbles once when one of the defenders lunges for his feet, but catches his balance and runs the remaining 15 yards into the far end of the field where the green grass becomes white and NORTHWESTERN is spray painted in purple.

The entire stadium loses their collective minds.

“Touchdown!” his father yells, hands over his head just like the refs on the field. He high fives his friend and then random people sitting behind them he doesn’t even know. “What a play,” he says, and _Yeah_ , Elio thinks. _That was kinda cool_.

The rest of the first half goes much the same way. The other teams trundles down the field with short gains, failed plays. Sometimes they kick another field goal, other times the kick the ball back to Northwestern without even trying. “Everything always ends with a kick, doesn’t it?” Elio asks and his dad smiles. Then Northwestern gets the ball back, Oliver somehow works his magic getting these heaving slabs of men to move with precision and accuracy. They score again, the crowd cheers, the band plays the fight song.

It’s sometime near the end of half time, after the marching band has done their show and during another one of the stoppages where nothing seems to be happening (“It’s a TV break, for commercials,” his father had explained earlier around a mouthful of nachos.) that he realizes just how glad he is to be here, spending this time on a Saturday with his dad.

They’ve both had a miserable year. His mother’s affair came to light just as Elio’s ordeal in Paris was finding its shameful end. Her tryst had been going on for quite a while before then, his mother and this young man who shared space in her art studio above the pasticceria on Via Bessarione in Milan, so Elio knows the stress he caused them both didn’t result in the affair. Though, he does wonder, if in one of those heated arguments where they’d tried to decide _What must we do about Elio?_ , if the narrative had shifted, like that fight Oliver had with Chiara, and ended up being about something else, something far bigger.

But as is common for children of divorced parents, some residual guilt remains and the road back to mutual trust has been a long one. This afternoon, watching sport, eating junk food and beer out of plastic bottles that costs far too much, feels like an arrival point.

As the game extends into the end of the third quarter, Elio starts to wonder why whomever came up with this game decided on four quarters. Why not three thirds? Two halves? Time drags and Elio begins to think of all the practicing he needs to get to today, the writing projects that need polishing as they move into the second half of the semester. He toys with his phone, reading another message from Marzia.

_Can’t feel my toes anymore. Going._  
_Text me tonight xx Party at ΦΜΑ_  
_YOU ARE GOING WITH ME_

He’s about to text her back when an unusual motion catches his eye. A player in black and gold is speeding up the field like some kamikaze fighter, breaking his way through the protective line of players around Oliver. He crashes, shoulder first, right into the small of Oliver’s back. Oliver’s hands, still clenched around the ball, are unavailable to brace his fall and he lands with a disturbing bounce of his head, helmet waking face first into the ground.

“What the fuck!” Elio shouts, standing. His outcry is met with a tempering look from his dad and a furtive glance towards the gents in the suits. “Sorry,” he mouths at them as he sits.

It’s not the first time Oliver’s been hit this game, but the first time he’s been completely blindsided. Forget any precision, this game is barbaric and violent. Why Oliver would subject himself to this kind of battery week after week seems beyond comprehension.

“They can’t do that can they?” He asks, eyes glued to where Oliver still lays on the ground, covered by the opposing player.

“Unfortunately, they can. It’s called a sack. The offensive line really didn’t hold there, did they?” He says, directing the question to his friend.

Even as Elio’s heart beats painfully in his chest at having seen Oliver felled so easily, Oliver reaches up and clasps the forearm of the same player who had supplanted him onto the grass, letting him pull Oliver to his feet, no worse for wear. It’s good sportsmanship, Elio supposes, but he’d have been more likely to deck the guy if he'd been in Oliver’s shoes. (Which would have ended miserably for Elio, considering the size of the player.)

“You two have become close, haven’t you?” His father asks. Oliver sits out one play, helmet off as trainers examine him. “You and Oliver.”

“No,” Elio says with enough filial irritation to tell his father they most certainly have. He shrugs, hoping to down play it. “I mean, I guess we’re friends. We study together, sometimes.”

The euphemism had worked for them, so why not here to.

“Of course. I imagine Oliver is the kind of man who is easy to be friends with.”

“Yeah, he is,” Elio says, certain that’s he’s just given it all away.

His dad smiles warmly at him, the lines, deep and familiar, around his eyes crease beneath his glasses. It’s a look of such impossible love, the inexplicable, heart-crushing kind that can only be felt when one quite literally took part in the creation of the other.

As the game clock finally ticks down to 00:00 and the two coaches meet in the middle of the field to shake hands, Elio is convinced Oliver looks up their way, his face turned towards them for several long moments as if searching for Elio's face among the crowd.

Sometime after 1am, as Elio wanders out of the party, happily drunk, he re-reads the unanswered text Oliver had sent earlier. It consists of a simple, _And?_. A single word that is a hopeful cry for approval.

The rain has cleared, leaving a heavy fog in its place. It hovers around the street lamps, creating a magical glow, giving the impression that on this night impossible things are possible.

Elio dials Oliver’s number.

“Hey, you.” Oliver mutters, after a second or two of shuffling sounds. His voice sounds sleepy, like he’s in bed and holding the phone extra close under the covers.

“You alone?”

“I am now. And I wouldn’t have answered if I weren’t. So...you do anything interesting today?”

Elio knows exactly what Oliver’s fishing for, but he enjoys teasing it out. “Yeah, I got some good practice in. Just went to party with Sam and Marzia.”

“Elio,” he interrupts with a whine and Elio loves it. “I’ve been dying for you get back to me. What did you think about the game?”

“That game? It’s a brutal, violent sport. I’m not sure I understand the appeal of grown men chasing and tackling each other just to get a ball from one end of the field to the other. And it’s way too freaking long.”

“Ok,” Oliver says. Another single word that saps all the joy from the world.

“But you, I thought you were…”

Even with all the clashing and the grunting, the torn up sod and their rain-damp uniforms, there had been a stunning elegance to the way Oliver had moved on the field - light footed but powerful, commanding and respected. Oliver had been perfect and Elio had felt proud to know him.

He gets the hype now, more than ever. Oliver belongs on a field like this, playing football for as long as he’s physically able. There would be an injustice to the universe and the talents bestowed on him if he didn’t.

“You, know why don’t I just come over and show you instead?”

Oliver exhales softly in his ear, warm, smiling. “I’ll go unlock the door.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I know how J.K Rowling felt writing those quidditch scenes.
> 
> Also, between TIFF, some behind the scenes fandom drama and my crazy life, I just want to thank you again for your patience with updates. I usually try to have a chapter ahead already written, but it just isn't working out that way with this fic. So again - thanks. xo


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very hastily proof read - apologies in advance. :) 
> 
> Sending love to all of you readers! This has been (and will continue to be for many chapters yet...) such a remarkable and fun journey! I am eternally grateful for your enthusiasm. xoxo

**_WHO IS IN?_ **  
**_128 hopeful teams_ **  
**_4 selected to play_ **  
**_Only 1 will be crowned_ **  
**_CHAMPION_ **  
**_College Football Playoff, only on ESPN, Dec. 31, 2018_ **  
**_TV Ad, ESPN, Nov. 5, 2018_ **

 

Carrying a secret, especially one as massive as the one Oliver has born up for the better part of decade, can often be a very lonely mission. The web of lies, strung together and intricate, is laced with guilt and trepidation and have, until now, been his alone to maintain.

There have been countless times where Oliver’s resolve has wavered. Where he is sure that if he really is the good and decent man he believes himself to be, there is not way he can keep the charade up even one minute longer.

Like the times he’d slither back to Chiara’s dorm room freshman and sophomore year, the memory of some nameless man still burned into his skin and he’d think it’s been fine to mess around on a girlfriend but to do the same to a wife? Especially one whose marriage vows will mean as much as they will to Chiara?

And he’d choke on the realization that she above all others deserves the truth. And he’d touch her shoulder, warm under the blankets where she’d slept and he’d hope if she truly does love him the way she swears she might, she not shun him but instead offer absolution. That might find it in her devout heart to hate the sin but love the sinner.

There had been those quiet moments at home. Sitting by the winter fire with his father and his papers or out on the screened in porch with his mom, the air alive with crickets and peepers. Times when he’d felt insecure in himself but safe in his childhood home and he’d felt his heart pound, knowing he could start the conversation with a simple, “Mom?”

But now his massive secret is not his alone to carry. Now Elio helps him carry the load.

What he shares with Elio feels anything but false. It is no lie, simply an alternate, private version of himself that exists alongside the one the rest of the world sees. The other side of the coin. A fantasy world hidden behind the veil that makes him more riotously happy than he’s ever been.

In the weeks following Halloween, Oliver feels in complete control of both realities. He is Atlas bearing up the weight of not just one, but two worlds as they spin forward just the way they should, in perfect balance and harmony.

He steals the moments he can with Elio. The easy ones before and after class, where their looks express how glad they are to see each other and they chat with the simplicity of friends.

While at the same time, he creates other opportunities for them be together that require a bit more mischief but also a greater reward.

Like the night Oliver sneaks into the music school, his first time ever in the building, via the loading dock door. He feels extra-large and out of place even with a ball cap pulled low over his eyes, wearing an over-sized black fleece with the crest for _Il Conservatorio di Musica Giuseppe Verdi_ on his chest that Elio had lent him the other night when he’d stayed too late and the temperature had dropped.

He walks down the long hallway of practice rooms, still surprisingly full of students for it being nearly midnight and finds Elio in the practice room at the very end.

Through the small porthole window Oliver can see the back of Elio’s head, bent over the keys, his body tiling this way and that with the shape of the phrase. With a soft knock, Oliver enters.

Elio doesn’t drop a single note, his fingers moving fluidly over the keys. “I’m almost done,” he says, gesturing with his chin toward the molded plastic chair set in the corner.

The room is small with barely enough room for the grand piano Elio plays, so Oliver's view is up close and intimate. It’s the first time he has seen Elio play and he could do it all night. He adores the way Elio’s eyes move across the page, his foot softly tapping against the peddle. Of course, Oliver doesn’t mind either when Elio finishes his practice, marking something quickly on the page with pencil a before he locks locks the door behind him, pulls the blind over the peephole window and pushes Oliver’s hips back against the keys.

He takes Chiara out on a date the day after NU sails through their game at Iowa. It’s a proper date at a nice place downtown, the likes of which they haven’t had in months. Since Rome, probably. She looks happy all evening, the glow of candles warming her face. Oliver finds himself enjoying her company as they laugh easily about their past and and don’t talk about the future.

He goes up to her room after, and when she reaches for him for the first time since their fight, he doesn’t hold back. Inspired by all his encounters with Elio, he strips her naked, lays her back on her bed and puts his mouth between her thighs, something he can only remember doing, with hesitance, once or twice before.

She keens, the small of her back arching up, as Oliver imagines that it’s not him in the midst of this act but Elio. _His_ Elio, with his experience and interchangeability. Even as he tends to one lover, Oliver embodies the other. He thinks just how beautiful it would be to watch Elio please someone else, to just be an observer instead of a participant in Elio’s love making with the full knowledge that the show Elio would put on was for Oliver’s enjoyment alone.

Chiara nearly screams as she comes, completely unprepared for Oliver’s passion and the reaction of her own body to such an unholy act. He stays with her that night because it seems the right thing to do.

When Oliver tells Elio the next day what’d he done with her, he grabs Oliver by the back of neck and kisses him deep, as if trying to find the taste of her even though it is long since been washed away.

“Do to me what you did to her,” he breathes, hard against his ear, crawling into Oliver’s lap.

“I can’t, you don’t have...”

A hot, red blush rushes up Oliver’s neck as he realizes what Elio’s asking. Only minutes later, an completely undone Elio mewls into the pillows as Oliver’s tongue works in ways and in places he didn’t know were possible.

He defends himself with a level of exacting firmness he wouldn’t have dared before now when Coach lays into him one evening after the on field drills but before they retire to the conference room for video analysis.

“You missed practice this morning.”

“No, I missed an optional workout that only I am expected to do and have done everyday for the past four years.”

Coach sits back, properly chastened. “Where were you?” he asks anyway.

Elio hadn’t left his apartment until nearly 4am that morning. They’d barely done that evening other than watch a moving. But then they’d laid in bed together, face to face, sharing soft kisses and touches, talking long after any heat had built and been contained.

Oliver shrugs. “Sleeping.”

It’s not a total lie.

“Look, Sugarman. I know it’s been a long season. We’ve got three games left before the championships. We’re sitting at number one in every list those analysts put out every week, so that means we’re going to have at least two more games after that. And I for one am hoping for three.”

“I’m hoping for that, too. Of course I am.”

“So, now isn’t the time to get complacent. We’ve got this,” he says emphatically. “But you gotta stay hungry for it.”

“Trust me, I have more riding on us winning the Title this year than anyone. I won’t let you down.”

And just like that, he has Coach back on side. They beat University of Illinois by nearly 30.

“It probably makes me the most twisted person on the planet that one of my first thoughts upon seeing this apartment was ‘Man, sure would be fun to fuck someone in those windows,’” Elio says one night as he stands at his massive bedroom windows, watching the first snow of the year fall. It’s not warm enough for it to stick, but it makes for a beautiful sight.

Oliver snorts, settling in from behind. He loves the way Elio always feels so tall and thin when he holds him.

“Have you managed to yet?”

“Well, have _you_ had sex in front of this window?”

“No.”

“Then, no.”

Elio’s shoulders shift uncomfortably, aware of what he’d just admitted to with his rapid-fire answer.

Oliver saves him the distress of trying to catch his gaze, knowing it would be delicate and guarded.

“No one else?” He whispers past Elio’s ear, as if addressing the snow.

“Not since Marzia.  Not since that night at Hillel,” Elio admits and Oliver is overwhelmed.

The following morning, he sits on the other side of Professor Perlman’s desk, completely serene, not a single nervous twitch to give him away as the fine professor goes in minute detail through edits in Oliver’s thesis, all the while knowing just how he’d had his son the night before.

His pure white skin reflecting back on the night-black glass like a mirror, even while being on full display for the whole world to see, arms splayed, head bowed, fingers slack in Oliver’s grasp as Oliver had fucked up into his body for the first time.

Only it had felt nothing like fucking and everything like making love.

Which perhaps explains why there is no moment of existential crisis, which might bring serious distress to other men Oliver’s age, when he realizes a few days later, as he and Elio work on his couch, Elio’s wool covered toes tucked under Oliver’s thigh “Cause I’m cold,” that this inexpressible, baffling, staggering emotion that’s started crowding into his chest actually has a very simple name.

 _Love_.

The word locks into place like a gear that had been out of alignment and now, that it’s shifted back, allows for the wheels to crank all the faster. The three words of gain speed and momentum in his brain.

“Hey,” he says, pulse flying.

He catches one of Elio’s curls between his thumb and finger, and Elio looks up, stylus for his music writing software clapped between his teeth. His eyes are bright with inspiration.

“What?” he mumbles around the bit of metal, not annoyed, but in the zone. Oliver simply shakes his head, fondly, cause _God, he must already know._

Occasionally he wonders if he’s getting sloppy. If, like Oedipus, all this hubris will bring about his downfall. Perhaps someone has noticed the change in his demeanor, the brightness that surrounds him. He wonders if someone hasn’t noticed the way he and Elio come and go from each other’s apartments at all hours, day and night.

But he’s not worried about the fact Chiara’s post-game posts in Instagram have gotten more reasonable, how she seems to put less pressure on his time than ever before, because it’s senior year and everyone is busy.

But then his two expertly detached universes collide one morning while he and Elio take advantage of Dr. Ellison’s flu, doing nothing scandalous besides eating cereal together in Oliver kitchen.

Chiara unlocks his front door in the midst of a phone conversation. “Yeah, I’ll be there in a sec. I just need to drop something at Oliver’s first. _Oh shit._ ” She jumps as she sees them, just as surprised to find Oliver in his own apartment as she is to see he’s not alone. She hangs up her phone without another word, dropping what looks like an overnight bag from one shoulder and her purse from another.

“I thought you had class,” she says, staring at the pair of them.

But before Oliver can even catch Elio’s eye, hoping to convey the nauseating feeling in his gut and the grim realization that _This is it_ , Elio is stepping forward, reaching for Chiara’s hand with a charming smile on his face.

“You must be Chiara,” he says as Oliver’s palms begin to sweat. “Oliver’s told me so much about you. I’m Elio Perlman, I’m in Oliver’s Plato seminar. Our professor called in sick today which was a good thing because I’d lost one of my books, so hadn’t done the reading. Turns out I’d left it here but I didn’t realize it until I saw Oliver today. Ahh, I’m a mess.”

It’s a perfect, unscripted cover story and he sells it like an Oscar winner.

“Oh,” she says, smiling hesitantly as their handshake holds. She laughs to break up the tension. “Elio, yeah. Oliver’s mentioned you before.”

“Has he now?” Elio turns, lifting an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah, he said you really helped him study before his midterm.”

Elio turns again, giving Oliver a look soft and layered, but one only he can read. “Oh, I don’t know. I think we helped each other that night.”

The butterflies of panic in Oliver’s stomach become something very different.

“Elio has class straight through until after three.” He lifts his bowl of cheerios. “I offered him breakfast.”

“You could have offered him more than cereal, Oliver,” She tsks.

“It’s better than what I would have had, which would have probably been nothing.  But speaking of my crazy schedule, I should get going.” Elio grabs his bag from the floor just as Chiara steps into the kitchen and puts her arms around Oliver’s neck. “See you Friday in class, then?”

Oliver nods over Chiara’s shoulder, mouthing a thank you. Elio blows him a kiss on his way out the door.

 _Has your blood pressure_  
_returned to normal yet?_

Elio texts him later that night.

                  _That was fucking close_

It takes nearly 10 minutes for Elio to text back.

                                                                                                                                                          _Look we’ve been hanging out a lot_  
_We can cool things off if you need to. I get it._

 _No way you’re getting rid_  
_of me that easy, Perlman_

Elio replies simply. _xoxo_

Oliver beings to think about ways he could do this into perpetuity, reach some sort agreement with Elio once he gets drafted in the spring. Football and the man he loves and finally some fucking happiness.

Oliver feels untouchable and is ready to ride this feeling all way through the end of the semester. The rest of an undefeated senior season.

That is, until they lose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots more sex in this chapter than expected. 
> 
> Also, Oscar winner. ;) Willing it into the universe!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the loss affects them both.
> 
> Also, Oliver finally sleeps over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU ARE ALL THE BEST AND ILY
> 
> If you haven't had the chance, come on over to my tumblr. Some people have made fanart for this fic and deserve SO MUCH LOVE AND ADORATION!

  
_**In a stunner with possible serious @CFBPlayoff repercussions, #1 @NUFBfamily falls to unranked @UMichFootball. Tune into @BigTenNetwork College Football Recap to see what this means for the #big10 Championship game and beyond. ~ Nov. 17, 2018** _

  
They lost.

They fucking lost.

Oliver’s chest heaves as he sits on a chair in front of his locker in the maize and blue locker room, still trying to catch his breath from that final Hail Mary he’d sent into the endzone just minutes before. Des had come down with it, but it hadn’t mattered. Time had expired before they could kick the extra point that would have tied the game or attempted the two-point conversion that would have won it.

The shock is still so new that he can still hear their marching band playing the fight song, victors.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

It’s easy in moments like this to try to place blame. He could blame Coach for his play calling in the last two minutes. He could blame Des for that dropped pass early in the 1st that would have helped set the tone and quiet the crowd. He could blame Ruiz for getting that targeting penalty and getting ejected, which let Michigan extend a drive that their defense had all but stopped. He could blame his offensive line who didn’t hold tight enough around him, which resulted in a sack and a forced fumble (only his 3rd of the whole season) which a lumbering Michigan linebacker had picked up and run in for the touchdown that put them ahead.

Michigan wanted this one more than they did today and he gets that. It was their last home game of another mediocre season. Senior Day for their quarterback, a guy Oliver knows well, and totally respects as a player and a person. Their fancy, multimillion dollar coach’s neck has been on the line for several seasons now and he was in need of a signature win.

They sure got it.

And while logic tells him that loses like these are a perfect storm of little mistakes - moments that on their own would amount to nothing in the course of a game, but when stacked one on top of the other, result in disaster. But he’s the Captain. The QB. The leader. He’s the one with all the accolades, with his name on all the award ballots and an all but guaranteed career at the next level. 

Oliver can’t help but place the blame squarely at his own feet.

Plus this feels like an omen. He had everything under control: Chiara, Coach, the team, Elio, his parents, school. This feels like the first chink in the armor. And if even this can’t hold, then what else will break?

His chest feels hollow. His throat has a metallic taste to it. He doesn’t want to cry, that’s not what captains do, but he just might.

Des punches Oliver in the shoulder pad. Des is already out of his cleats and jersey, wearing a soft t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. It makes Oliver realize he’s probably been sitting here in stunned silence longer than he realizes.

“Fuck, man.” Only when Des is most upset does a bit of an accent creep through his usual bland New England/Midwestern/homogenized English. That hint of the island French, which he’d spoken exclusively until he was 6 and his parents still use when at home (A French so very different from the one Elio slips into from time to time) makes his disappointment feel all the more emphatic.

“Look, if we win next weekend then we have the tiebreaker with Ohio State and we’re still in the division finals, then if we win that then...”

Oliver knows all this. In the end, the final four teams in the College Football Playoffs are selected by a vote by a committee. It isn’t a computer algorithm and even a single loss, especially a late season one, can looks very ugly to easily influenced humans. There is still a road there and he knows that. But it’s not a straight line anymore. Oliver had wanted to leave the committee with zero doubt.  
  
Des claps his hand at the base of Oliver neck. “Look, this isn’t a death sentence or something, alright?”

Oliver appreciates what Des is trying to do. They’ve cheered each other on since they were 14 years old, playing in Pop Warner league games, scurrying about a field with helmets that were too big for their heads. They’ve been here before countless times, the two of them, sitting in a locker room after a tough loss, trying to bolster the other up because only then can they start to feel better themselves.

But the sting is still too fresh, the consequences too monumental, and he can’t hear Des’ attempts at positivity right now.

He somberly answers questions at the post-game press conference, cause even after a loss the press need a sound bite.

“How does a loss like this make you feel, Oliver?”

“How do you think?” he asks and the collection of reporters titer softly. “You never expect something like this to happen when we’re having the kind season we’re having.” He speaks into the mic, his voice resigned. They still eat it up. “Guess days like today prove there is a reason why you always play the game. Sometimes, the way you have things planned out just isn’t the way they end up.”

He avoids looking at his phone for the entire 3 hour bus ride home, knowing what he’ll find: gloating hate from the haters on Twitter, messages from his parents that will be sympathetic and distant, especially from his dad. He never knows what to say to Oliver on days this like. There would be Chiara’s IG posts, full, he’s sure, of melodramatics that would only ring false to him in his current state.

Instead, he watches the landscape fly past on I-94 as it shifts from suburbs, to forest, to flat open land, stretching into a sinking horizon. They cross the timeline before the highway begins to hug the lake, Saturday night traffic slowing their progress.

“Chin up, son,” Coach says, grabbing him firmly by the arm as he exits the bus. Something about the tightness of his grip seems to say, _Get it together_. “This was a tough one but it was just a fluke. Something to bring out heads back down to earth. I’ll see you at practice Monday and we’ll get ‘em next week.”

“Yes, sir.” Oliver replies. He never calls him sir, but it’s the thing that slips out in this moment. He can’t help but wonder if Coach is thinking of that missed practice as much as Oliver is.

When he gets back to his apartment, Chiara is there, watching the night game on ABC with all the lights off and the sound turned low. She’s wearing leggings and one of his sweatshirts so when runs to him, saying “Babe, I’m so sorry,” Oliver is nearly suffocated by the sleeves when she throws her arms around his neck.

It’s hard to tell, but it looks like she’s been crying. He knows Chiara loves supporting him, but he’s not sure she’s actually shed tears over a loss before.

“I just...What happened?”

“We lost, Chiara, that’s what happened.”

“I know that, _obviously_. But how? Everything was a mess today.”

Oliver scoffs bitterly. “Thanks for that really precise analysis.  Can you turn that off, please?” Oliver asks, knowing how cold he sounds. The last thing we wants to is to see #2 Georgia easily win their game tonight and all but ensure that Northwestern will get knocked out of the top 4 in the rankings.

And even though he’d showered back in Ann Arbor, he goes into the bathroom without another word and cranks the water as hot as it will go. He lets the water beat against his shoulders, steam fill the room. It feels like the most ineffective purge.

Chiara has the Food Network on when he joins her on the couch later. She snuggles close and snaps a picture of the two of them right away. She toys with her phone for several minutes after which can only mean she’d posted it.

“You hungry?” she asks, then gets up to make popcorn without him even answering.

He’s able to pretend for a while that he’s doing better, and maybe he even really could be if it weren’t for the way she keeps looking at him, watching like you’d watch someone just home from the hospital, looking to signs they’ll fall ill again. Like she’s waiting for him to break down just so she can be there to mend him.

And that’s when he realizes it’s not _what_ or the _how_ of the sympathy that’s been thrown his way all day that has him still so rankled, it’s the _who_.

He doesn’t want Des’ sound logic. He doesn’t want Coach’s paternal platitudes. He doesn’t want Chiara’s public empathy.

He wants Elio. Elio with his logical indifference to the game, his wry sarcasm that had resulted in a series of texts sent an hour or so after the game ended (The fuck even is a Wolverine? Just googled. Fuck, they’re ugly little things aren’t they? And they don’t even live in the state anymore. Who names their team that?) He is probably the only person on the planet capable of both distancing Oliver from what happened while snapping him out of his self-flagellation.

“I’m going out,” he says abruptly and Chiara turns off the TV. Oliver hadn’t realized just how dark his apartment was until the glow of the screen is missing.

“What, now?”

“Yes, now.” He gets his sneakers, tying the laces quickly.

“But it’s nearly midnight. Where are you going to go?”

“I don’t know,” he lies. He knows exactly where he wants to be.

“When will you be back?”

“I don’t know!” The minimal light from outside reflects off the whites of her wide eyes. “God, I just need to clear my head, ok?”

That’s a double whammy. Profanity and a raised voice. He puts his coat on as Chiara crosses her arms sternly.

“I’m not going to wait here alone all night long for you.” Her voice trembles.

“Maybe I don’t want you to.”

It is, it appears, possible to distill an entire 7 year relationship down to a moment. To bring it to a convergence point where things are being said without being said. Where realizations are happening in real time.

  
“Oliver,” She says and it sounds like an ultimatum. Like a line in the sand.

He leaves anyway.

The night air is icy and empty and exactly what Oliver needs. He walks and finds a bench on the edge of campus, away from any street lamps and texts Elio.

                        _Can I come see you?_

The reply comes, the first welcome words of the day.

                                                                                                                                                      _Of course. At a bar give me 15 x_  
*

It starts much like their first meeting.

Elio opening his door to Oliver, broad and handsome, on his doorstep, but emitting an aura of unease.  And just like he had that first night, Elio looks him over, perusing, though this time he scans him with an eye for his mental well being and not just his fuckability.

Hearing news of Northwestern’s loss had been unavoidable. Even Elio’s fellow music students, who can be hit or miss on their devotion to the school team, were talking about it backstage before their concert.

“Wait, seriously? They lost?” He’d asked Marzia as she’d clicked off her phone and general groan had gone around the green room.

“ _They_ lost. _They_?” she’d parroted, her eyebrow saucy. “Seriously? Aren’t you the one who’s all bff’s with the quarterback now?”

“We have one class together. That hardly makes us soulmates.”

Marzia had rolled her eyes at him.

“Yes, Elio, _we_ lost.” She’d said it with something akin to heartbreak. Like this bit of information could seriously ruin the rest of her evening.

“But...I thought _we_ were good?” He’d felt so confused. How could the team he’d watched just a few weeks before that had moved like a finely tuned watch not come away with a win?

“We are. We’re really good,” she’d said. “And Michigan isn’t even ranked. That’s what makes it so bad.”

Oliver has told him enough about how the sport works to know that even one loss could seriously impact the results of the season. He couldn’t care less about the game. But about the teams’ captain? Very much.

It had weighed heavily in the back of Elio’s mind during the first half of their concert because this is what happens when you someone becomes important to you. What matters to them, matters to you. So Elio couldn’t help but think about how Oliver must have been feeling. What he was doing, how he was coping, at the very same moment as Elio subdivided the complicated rhythms of a John Adams chamber symphony.

He’d sent some texts during intermission. Dry and trivial, maybe, but a sign to Oliver that he knew what had happened and was reaching out.

Then he’d waited. He had been pretty certain that Oliver would have a network of support around him of teammates,coaches, parents, girlfriends - all ready to step up with insider perspective and real-life experiences that would bring comfort in this type of situation. Elio had never felt more like an outsider to Oliver’s life than after the game. A useless little plaything that has no real impact on Oliver’s life or future.

Which is why when he’d gotten Oliver’s text just as he and Marzia had picked up a round of drinks at a bar they’d gone to along with some fellow music school classmates for post-concert revels, he’d bent towards her ear to speak over the sound of the bar.

“I gotta go.”

She’d swallowed back her shot. “Why?”

  
“I’m...gonna go meet someone.”

Marzia had stood, her chair raking across the floor and adding to the overall din. She’d stared at him for a minute, the smallest, triumphant smile spreading on her lips.

“I knew it.” Her drink had sloshed over the rim of her cup as she’d poked him in the chest with a finger. “I _knew_ it.”

“Knew what?”

  
“That you’ve been seeing someone! Who are they? Do I know them?”

For a moment, Elio had been ready to toss out another denial but of course Marzia could see the truth. After all, they had started walking down that path themselves, even if only for the length of one night before changing course and veering off to find an equally sacred road. It’s no wonder she can read the signs with more accuracy than most.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he’d muttered, his small confession carefully masked by the busy bar around them.

Oliver looks tired as Elio opens his door all the way and welcomes him in with a sweep of his arm. This is no surprise. But it’s not exhausted tired, it’s done tired. Like the only thing that is keep his bones upright is will alone. Everything about him, from the slope of his shoulders to the arc of his brow says, Can we please not talk about it?

Elio takes his coat, tossing it unceremoniously on the couch and then his hand. His fingers are icy cold, indicating that he’d probably been wandering outside a lot longer than the 15 minutes it would take to get from Oliver’s place to his.

“Were you out with Marzia?”

"And some other classmates."  

“Now I feel bad.”

“Don’t," Elio says as he pulls Oliver towards his bedroom with a gentle tug. It was just two-for-one wells drinks at Charlie’s.  "You’ve probably saved me from a massive hangover tomorrow.”

“Glad I could be of service.”

“Take your shirt off.”  He points at his bed. “Lay down.”

“Elio.” Oliver shakes his head sadly, his lashes dropping to glance against his cheeks. “That’s not what I came here for.”

“No? Shame.” Oliver looks disappointed momentarily, until Elio cups his face, his thumbs finding the bones of his eye sockets, brushing against those long, pale lashes. “I know that,” he whispers and Oliver’s breath evens out. “Just trust me, ok?”

He goes into the bathroom, finding a small, plastic vial in the back of the medicine cabinet. Oliver is shirtless by the time he comes back out, his body wrapped around one of Elio’s pillows, one knee tucked up high, his other leg stretched long against the comforter. His shoes, kicked off, are in a tumbled pile at the foot of Elio’s bed. Elio has half a mind to just let him be, certain that he’d be asleep in minutes.

But then Oliver catches him, mid-stare, and looks up, expectant.

“Roll over,” Elio says, crawling onto his bed and swinging one leg over Oliver’s hips as he moves the pillow out of the way and rolls onto his front. Elio pops open the vial and spreads its pungent contents on his hand.

Oliver moans, long and gratified, as the heels of Elio’s palms find the deep muscles of Oliver’s back.

“This ok?”

“You’re way better than the team PT.”

“Thanks, I think?”

The silence that fills the air between them feels sacrosanct and not meant for casual things, so Elio lets it stretch on. It’s a silence that only Oliver should fill. If he needs to. If he wants to.

Elio continues to work, pressing deep around his shoulders, the muscles that parallel the length of Oliver’s spine. He lightens as he reaches the skin on the left side of Oliver’s ribs. He’s watched the bruise from that terrible sack during the game Elio had watched fade from Oliver’s skin, while the mental image of him falling helpless to the turf had not.

“What is this stuff?”

“Home grown magic.” Elio laughs at Oliver’s noise of utter confusion.

“So I think I mentioned that I spent summers in this tiny town on the coast?” Oliver nods against the pillow. “There were tons of kids my age there, some locals, some summer transplants like me. My cousins would come visit every year. It was great, really. We had total command of the place, just riding around all day on our bikes, going to the beach, into town for movies. Our cellphones hardly had service and the wifi only seemed to work every other day, so we were free range kids, man. Totally unplugged.”

Part lotion, part balm, part tincture, Elio spreads more across his hands before wrapping his hands around the back of Oliver’s neck, his fingers pressing behind his ears, not worrying when a bit gets into the hair the base of Oliver’s head.

“There was this old guy, Anchise, who lived near my parents place. Well, it’s my dad’s place now, he got it in the divorce. Anyway, Anchise would help out with the garden, maintenance work. We had some old fruit trees he was always trying to graft and actually make fruit. Well, he liked to keep an eye on us kids, too. Felt responsible for us or something. Like whenever one of us fell off our bikes or on the rocks by the water, he was always there, ready to take us home or if it wasn’t too bad, lather us up with this stuff, give us a limonada and send us back on our way.”

“And did he lure any of you children away with promises of candy into the back of his trunk before driving you to a secondary location?”

Elio shoves him lightly with the back of his wrist, rolling his eyes. “You Americans watch too many crime dramas. It wasn’t like that at all. He was sweet. I think he was lonely, actually. He makes this stuff from herbs in his own garden. It helps cuts and bruises heal faster. Just makes everything feel better in general.”

“Well, I’m certainly feeling better,” Oliver says. His eyes are closed but for the first time there is a smile too.

“Yeah? Good.” Elio flops down next to Oliver on the bed and rubs the remaining product into his skin. He presses the tips of his fingers against his nostrils and inhales. It smells like home. Like comfort.

His father has mentioned wanting go back this summer, just in passing, as if to test Elio’s reaction. Neither had been open to a visit last summer, the memories of summer spent with their now broken family were too plentiful there and therefore, too painful.

Oliver tucks himself against Elio’s side and they just lay there for a while.

In a different lifetime, Elio would suggest that Oliver come with them to Italy that summer. He could show him the village, his favorite place for espresso in the morning, the small inlet with the rocky shoals where he would go and sit when he wanted to be alone.

But Oliver will never watch the sun move down the facade of the Duomo in Milan with him as tourists and locals alike gather for an _aperitivo_ in the piazza. Elio will never see Oliver’s New England home so he can see first hand how superior their fall foliage is.

There are certain parts of each other’s lives that are only ever destined to be stories.  Elio supposes, in the end, that’s all they will be to each other too. And in Oliver’s case, one he can never share.

“Do you…Do you ever just feel like a total fraud?”

Elio wasn’t expecting that. Oliver lifts his head so he can catch Elio’s eye, checking in that it’s ok he’s gone this deep. Elio beings tracing shapes on the skin of Oliver’s bicep, a reminder of where he is and that’s he’s safe.

“And I don’t even mean about this, either.” He squeezes Elio all the tighter. “At least not this time.”

There’s a rationalizing quality to his voice, like he’s thinking this through as he goes. Elio values being privy to his inner monologue.

“And I know it’s just one game and the loss today wasn’t all down to just me and I know the season isn’t totally over. I mean, Georgia just needs to lose once and we’re fine. Like I know all that, but what if…” A sigh passes across Elio’s neck. “What if they’re all wrong about me? What’s if I’m not as good as they think I am?”

“Well, then you’ve been pulling the wool over the eyes of a lot of people who are very good at their jobs for a really long time.” Oliver huffs softly. “But I get it, though. That feeling. You’re playing a concert and you miscount or come in wrong, and you just feel like you’ve ruined this experience that was meant to be perfect. For the audience, the other players, the composer, even if they’ve been dead for 250 years. And you just can’t help but think, ‘Why bother? I’m clearly shit.’”

“No, exactly.” Oliver says, propping himself up on his elbow, suddenly urgent now that Elio understands him so completely. “On the bus ride home, I was questioning whether I really even want to put myself through this every week for the rest of my career.” He toys with one of the buttons on Elio’s shirt. “That’s the first time I’ve ever doubted wanting to play professionally and it scared the fuck out of me.”

Football, much like music is for Elio, is not only his future, it’s his whole identity. The center of his universe. It’s why he wakes up in the mornings and why he’s concocted this complicated life he lives. Losing football would be akin to losing himself.

Elio knocks his fingers through the thatch of hair at the front of Oliver’s head. “Please, like you’d be happy doing anything else.”

Oliver smiles again and settles back against Elio. He can feels the difference in his attitude just by the way he drops his arm around Elio’s waist, more limber and less desperate. He yawns, his mouth still wide as he starts to say, “I don’t know, I always wanted to learn the saxophone.”

“No,” Elio half moans, half laughs. “Oliver, Oliver, Oliver. All the beautiful orchestral instruments in the world and you pick _that_? You know, Rachmaninoff tried tried to make the saxophone happen.  Prokofiev tried.  Ravel tried.  It didn't sitck for a reason.”

“So what?” He laughs gently. “I like jazz.”

He sounds so completely innocent that Elio laughs too. “We should go to a show sometime, one of the jazz clubs in the city.”

“Yeah, I’d like that. Once the season’s over.”

Elio’s fingers begin their gentle painting of Oliver’s skin again.

“Hey,” Oliver says, interrupting the quiet again a few moments later. “Would it be cool if I just stayed here tonight?”

Elio pulls back to look at him. “You are joking, right? Of course you can stay. I’ve been trying to get you to have a sleepover at my house since that first night in Rome.”

Oliver lifts himself up again, a look of such sincerity, such openness, such warmth on his face that Elio is certain he knows what words that will come out of Oliver’s mouth next.

Elio feels himself flush, his heart rate double as he realizes he’ll say them back. 

What Oliver says instead feels even more transformative.

“I’m so fucking glad I met you.”

Elio pulls him down for a kiss, his arms circling round his back, his eyes closing against the sting he feels there. The kiss is long and chaste, but one that leaves the room spinning even while the world stands still.

They quickly strip down to their boxers and get under Elio’s covers.

Oliver falls asleep first as Elio rakes his fingers through his hair but Elio is not long to follow.  Drifting off to the thought of how amazing it will feel to wake up in the morning and Oliver is there and nothing about how wretched it will feel in a few weeks or months or years when he wakes up to the cold reality of life and Oliver isn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Anchise. He's such a weird character in the book. So shifty. I made him less so here.
> 
> I've often thought this Oliver deals with a bit of anxiety or at least, incredibly high expectations of himself. I mean, how could he live the way he does and NOT expect perfection? So this whole idea of feeling like a fraud, even from one tiny mistake (or slightly larger mistake here) is something I deal with my profession.
> 
> Also, hey look - no excessive smut. LOL (Also posted late at night so...sorry for mistakes. I'll re-read in the am)


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of Thanksgiving serenity.
> 
> Also, Oliver finds out what's up with Chiara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOVE LOVE LOVE
> 
> Spreading it far and wide to this fandom and beyond. xx

_**After Georgia’s last minute loss against Kentucky last Saturday night and Michigan’s shocking win over Northwestern, the four spots in the College Football Playoff remain anyone’s guess. But with a win against Wisconsin on Saturday, Northwestern would all but definitely shore up a spot, and would still be considered the front runner by many. - AP, Nov. 21, 2018** _

The only other time Elio celebrated Thanksgiving was the year his grandmother died. He hadn’t known his father’s mother terribly well, equipped with only vague memories of being brought to Long Island as a toddler, pushed in a stroller to the base of the Statue of Liberty or the summer she came and stayed with them by the ocean and the stress that seemed to put on both his parents. When his father had woken him one morning, already dressed in a suit for a plane trip back to the US, it had been the way his voice was laced with gentleness and his own sadness as he said, “Nana passed last night,” that had made Elio cling to him with tears in his eyes.

She’d passed in mid-November, so it had made sense for his parents to tac an extra week onto their trip, giving his father more time to grieve with relatives he’d drifted away from when he moved to Europe in the name of love and give Elio his first taste of an American tradition.

At eight, and with attitude spiraling out of every inch of his long, skinny limbs, he’d been ready to show off the prowess of his _scuola elementare_ year-2 brain. He had picked apart the holiday. “Why did the pilgrims need the Indians to help them? Why couldn’t they grown food on their own? And what did the native people get out of this arrangement? Why is it on a Thursday? And why is there a parade with these...flying things?”

His European palate, raised on garlic and delicately simmered sauces, had been skeptical of all the brown food put on his plate. He’d refused to eat the turkey after someone had shown him a picture of a live one but he had loved the pumpkin pie.

This year, Thanksgiving feels much more natural. This pause of five days feels like the crest to the arc of the semester, a much needed respite, almost a reward for having gotten this far.

It helps, too, that this break in the semester matches the natural serenity that has fallen over things between him and Oliver, as well.

Ten weeks since Rome, more than two months since that night at Hillel, a month since they slept together for the first time.  They have found a balancing point.

His relationship with Oliver, and he uses that word without hesitation, is no longer about frenetic hookups but about drawn out moments of intimacy that leave them both trembling, sweat collecting on their skin. There is no fear in Oliver’s eyes anymore or willful equivocation in Elio’s. The days since Oliver’s loss at Michigan have felt effortless, even as everything that is between them remains behind closed doors. Enduring, if only the world were a different place.

By Tuesday night most of campus is empty in preparation for the holiday. Elio sleeps in late on Wednesday and spends the day drinking coffee and perusing food blogs for recipes. He stays in his pajamas as he works on a composition due when the semester ends the following week. _Impractical Pairing, by Elio Perlman for flute and scordatura cello_ (dedicated to Marzia and Sam, of course). It’s a bit gimmicky, requires a bit of shtick from both players. It’s not like his usual work, but it feels nice to write something joyful for a change.

With Chiara leaving to fly home that afternoon, Oliver’s parents arriving first thing Thanksgiving morning and the massive, must win, final home game of Oliver’s college career against Wisconsin on Saturday night, Elio has made no claims to his time. He knows Oliver will see him when he’s able.

So he certainly doesn’t expect Oliver to bang on his door Wednesday evening, storming through like a steam train.

He grabs Elio immediately and kisses him so hard Elio feels like Grace Kelly, being dipped back in heels. Oliver pulls off with a massive smack of his lips and ebullient smile.

“She’s been fucking the point guard.”

Oliver is so breathless he can hardly get the words out. Did he run here? Did he forget Elio’s building has an elevator to the 18th floor?

“Who’s been fucking the what now?”

“Chiara,” Oliver says. “She’s been sleeping with the starting point guard on the basketball team for the past month.”

Elio is stunned silent as Oliver starts to pace across his apartment floor, speaking so quickly, with hand gestures so broad, Elio can’t help but wonder if Oliver is having some sort of manic episode.

“I mean, I could tell she was getting distant, but I just thought she was still holding a grudge about the whole engagement ring thing. I don’t understand how I didn’t see this? Well, no that’s not true I know _exactly_ why I didn’t see this,” he pauses to gesture at Elio. “But she’s actually been sleeping with him. Like...actual sex. So much for waiting until she’s married!” He laughs. “He even lives in my building, like two stories up from me. I see him in the laundry room all the time. He’s _pretty_ cute actually but like, that explains so much! All the times she’d be wearing something weird, or show up at my apartment at an unexpected hour. She’d obviously been with him. Can you believe this?”

He’s ecstatic. This is not the normal reaction of a guy who’s just found out his girlfriend of seven years is cheating on him. But then again, Oliver’s relationship with Chiara has always functioned under rather exceptional parameters, even if she was totally unaware of them.

“And she just... told you?” Elio asks, finally able to get a word in edgewise.

“Yeah, just now before she left for her flight. She said she can’t keep living a double life. She said that. To me.” He points at his own chest. “ _Me_.” He laughs, hysterically, spinning as he rubs both his palms across his face.

“I thought you cared about her?”

He’s just been given a free pass. Exonerated from what otherwise would have made him look like the worst kind of user and that could have broken her if her heart had remained faithful. Elio only met Chiara once and has been the main source of Oliver’s infidelity, but something about his overt schadenfreude sits unpleasantly with him.

“I do.”

“And you’re... totally ok with all this then? 7 years.” Elio snaps his fingers. “Poof.”

A bit of speed falls out of Oliver’s sails. His shoulders round. “Look, I was never going to be enough for her, just like she was never going to be enough for me. I can’t fault her for going out and finding what she needed, especially when I’ve done that to her more times than I can count. This is better for everyone, including you. Can’t you see that? Plus, I think she really likes this guy.”

He grabs Elio by both shoulders, attempting to return things back to his more celebratory mood. “Let’s go out. Someplace nice in the city.”

Elio can’t help but still be weary.  “Was Chiara upset?”

“You’re really harshing my high here, you know that, right?” Oliver says.

“It’s just, she thinks she just ruined a seven year relationship because _she_ was the unfaithful one.”

Oliver moves back into Elio’s orbit, slides his hands sweetly over Elio’s arms to catch his hands. “Look, I’ll text her in the morning, ok?”

“And say what, exactly? ‘It’s chill, babe, I’ve been fucking someone else too?’” Elio snorts at his own suggestion.

“How about I text her whatever you tell me to, hm? Something about understanding and being thankful for our time together and wishing her joy and wanting to still be friends? It would all be true. Just please,” Oliver says, turning the charm back on. “I want to buy you a drink. Spend some time with you and you alone. It’s almost like you don’t want me to take you out on a date.”

That word changes things slightly.

“A date, huh? You do realize it’s the night before Thanksgiving.”

“Yes,” Oliver slides his hands to Elio’s hips, then around to his ass. He pulls their bodies together, warm and inviting pressure building there. “And I’ve read that the night before Thanksgiving is one of the biggest drinking nights of the year. Ever heard of Drinksgiving?”

  
“No,” Elio giggles, unbidden. “God, Americans really have stupid names for everything don’t they?”

Oliver shrugs, a wicked smirk on his face that is made only more dangerous when his tongue slips out to wet his lips.

“You can’t even drink during the season,” Elio says, turning away and removing Oliver’s hands from his hips. “That a rule, isn’t it?”

He wanders around his kitchen counter but Oliver is close behind.

  
“Oh, Elio,” he says, his arms all encompassing, face tucked into Elio’s neck.

Elio likes the feeling of being chased, even if it’s just a few steps across his apartment.

“Haven’t you noticed I’ve been breaking my rules for you all along?”

*

The bar on the 96th floor lounge of the John Hancock building has a piano in the corner. After much cajoling (and his third cocktail) Elio summons the gumption to ask the performer if he might have a turn. Happy for an extra break, the man obliges.

Elio plays something short and simple, one of his own pieces that he wrote last year in Paris before everything turned to shit. He looks over at Oliver as he watches with a crooked, proud smile on his face, that single glass of cabernet he’s been nursing all night still at his elbow.

Oliver is the only one who claps when he finishes, but Elio finds that’s all that matters.

“Turns out,” Elio says as he slides back into the high stool at their window-side table. “That guy is also an NU grad.” He waves over at the pianist who has already resumed playing his cheesy, crossover classical. “He plays, like, real concerts in addition to doing this with a chamber group from Roosevelt Universit  They specialize in living composers. He said he’d give them my name.”

“That’s great, Elio.” Oliver says, grasping him by the shoulder briefly.

The evening has been filled with these kind of touches that in effusive Italy, where no greeting or farewell goes without a kiss or two to either cheek, would be totally _de regur_. But here in 21st century, middle America, while natural and easy, feel totally brazen to Elio.

There has only been one person who recognized Oliver as they ordered their first round of drinks at the bar. This one fellow, older and alone, had just given him a motivating fist pump and said, “Go Cats.”

So perhaps people think they are brothers or cousins, reunited for the impending Holiday. Or perhaps people simply aren’t looking their way at all, seated off in the corner of the slowly emptying bar.

To Elio, though, this looks very much like two men on a date. Oliver had gone home while Elio had showered. He’d come back to Elio’s apartment wearing a blazer with a fancy pale blue polo on underneath. Elio had dressed in his crisp white, collared shirt, paired with a pair of grey trousers with a bit of texture. They make for a stunning pair: dark and lean, blond and built, young and lost in each other.

The city looks stunning stretching out below them, too. The Navy Pier is lit up for some pre-holiday festivities. Mr. Ferris’ wheel spins slowly, lights ever flashes and changing. There is nothing quite like an mid-west American city. Manufactured and urban, all straight lines and electricity. These centers of industry lack the ancient bones of the cities of Europe Elio once called home. Cities like Paris that grew over centuries from small a protected fort into the hub of culture is is today almost by mistake, leaving their layouts as messy and complicated as their hearts. There is something so streamlined about American cities like this one, built after colonialism, before westward expansion. Structured and planned, a result of rapid forward progress.

But Elio can see the very same building he sits in right now from his bedroom window. The Chicago skyline has been like a backdrop to this last semester, always there, morning, evening, rain, sun, good night, terrible morning. It feels like his skyline now and Chicago feels like his city.

He senses Oliver’s eyes on him and he turns to meet the look with softness.

“You look so beautiful right now. Your hair in the light...it’s just...” Oliver looks totally spellbound. In love. Elio feels himself wilt.

It’s the first time he’s used that particular word. Not sexy, not hot. _Beautiful_. If this really were a date, Oliver would definitely be getting a second.

“I wish I could kiss you. Sorry,” he says immediately blushing. “Must be the wine.” He lifts his glass and finishes it.

“Don’t be.”

“It’s just. Even if it weren’t me, you know? Two men. Here?”

Elio scans the bar. As subtly as he can, he turns his knees towards Oliver and crosses them. Behind the barricade of their long legs, Elio catches the pads of Oliver’s fingers with his own and curls them back into his palm.

“World hasn’t ended yet.” Elio smiles softly.

Oliver squeezes back before letting go because clearly there still is a line of discomfort or unease.

“World shouldn't care about how two people feel but plenty still do, huh?” Elio nods in commiserating agreement. “You’ve never been...You know, harassed or anything have you?”

“No,” Elio says, lifting his drink. It’s more ice than gin now. “The music world is a pretty universally safe space and I’m not saying Europe isn’t without its bigots, but it’s always been a little more forward thinking on the whole. Times I’ve been with a guy, I've been lucky.”

Oliver’s face turns serious as he turns to face the window. The breezy way he had embraced the end of his relationship with Chiara and the cavalier way he's moved through their evening seems to catch up with him for a moment. As if he’s remembered exactly what’s at stake here.

“Do think you’ll start dating another girl then?” Elio asks. It's not a critique just a genuine question.

“Chiara and I did just break up like,” he checks his wrist for a non-existent watch. “5 hours ago. I should probably wait a little longer before I move on.”

“I don’t know,” Elio muses. “They always say the best way to get over a girl is to get under…"

“You?”

Elio gives him his best annoyed face, even as he laughs softly. Oliver’s avoiding the question and he knows it.

“I don't know... maybe I will,” he eventually admits. “She certainly did make things easier for me for a long time, providing all the smoke and mirrors without me really having to try. And the fact she didn’t want to sleep with me, god it was perfect. Seems cruel to put someone else in that position again.”

“You could always tell them, who ever this next girl is. Explain to them why their boyfriend or husband isn’t exactly up to his marital duties.” Elio means that to be a gentle tease, but for Oliver it’s a moment of realization. Soft and sad.

“But what a miserable life for her. For both of us.”

Elio wishes he could take his hand, run his hand through Oliver’s hair, offer any kind of comfort or understanding that it’s not Oliver’s fault he’d forced into the closet but this crazy mad world they live.

“You really never can come out, can you?” He asks, with total empathy.

“After I’ve stopped playing, maybe. Though I doubt the sport would be thrilled to have a gay coach anymore than a gay player.  And I'd like to do that, after my playing career is done.” Oliver lifts his face towards Elio, a sudden bout of worry across his face. “That doesn’t...change things for you, does it?”

 _Way more than I ever thought it would,_ Elio admits to himself delicately. For Oliver’s sake, he merely shakes his head.

“Take me home, Oliver.” He whispers, leaning in closer than necessary. Oliver’s eyes glow bright.

_Take me home and make yours. For as long as you’re able._

*  
Waking up in Elio’s bed still feels novel. The different orientation of the bed against the wall than in his apartment, the way the windows flank it on the other side bathing the expanse of it in morning light. He loves the feel of the sheets, imported from Europe no doubt, extra soft even as they tug away from the corners, leaving behind flattened creases where their bodies had been.

Maybe it’s because they knew they had all night and most of the morning. Or maybe it’s because for the first time in his whole life Oliver wasn’t cheating on someone but their love making had reached new levels last night.

Elio had caressed himself, unprotected, against the slicked cleft of Oliver’s ass.

“You can,” Oliver had gasped, knowing he was clean, trusting Elio to be too. He’d watched as mental calculations had flashed across Elio’s face and there had been a moment where his hips had faltered, edging imperceptibly forward, nudging just inside. Oliver had felt like it was something completely new, like they were about to make love again for the first time.

Then Elio had shook his head, pulling his hips away with a rueful wince. “Someday,” he whispered. “God, Oliver, someday I’ll fuck you raw and fall asleep still inside you. I promise we can make that happen soon. But until then, safety first, ok? Always.” 

Even with the condom between them, he’d felt closer to Elio than ever before but not nearly close enough. Somehow the only possible way for Oliver to have been satisfied would have been to fuse their bodies together. Oliver’s ribs become Elio’s ribs. His lungs, Elio’s. Two hearts, one body. One life.

Elio’s up already by the time Oliver pulls himself from the comfort of his bed, drinking coffee and looking at his phone at the small raised counter that separates his kitchen from his living room. They’ve missed the Macy’s Parade by hours now so the NFL pregame show is on (muted) for his sake, he’s sure.

Oliver dances his fingers over the bumps of Elio’s spine, just visible through the thin fabric of his shirt. Elio lifts his face to be kissed, so he does. It’s all so normal now.

“What time are your parents expecting you?” Elio asks.

“Too soon.” With a final quick kiss to Elio’s cheek he goes to the sink, rinsing out a mug when he can’t find a clean one.

Elio clicks off his phone and sets it down before crossing his arms on the on the counter. “You going to tell them about Chiara?”

“Guess I should, huh?”

“How do you think they’ll take it?”

Oliver pours himself a cup of morning caffeine from Elio’s fancy pot. It’s compact metal contraption, that you screw together and heat directly on the stove, painted the colors of the Italian flag. He’s been soundly reprimanded before not to call it coffee or espresso,“Because technically it’s neither.”

“They’ll be surprised, for sure. My mom will be elated, though she’ll try to hide it.”

Elio gives him a questioning look.  “Really?”

“She was never Chiara’s biggest fan. Always wanted me to find a ‘nice Jewish girl.’” Elio smirks at his air quotes. “I wish you could come with me.”

“And you’d introduce me as what, exactly?”

“My study partner?”

Elio hums, unimpressed and returns to his phone.

“What about you? When you going to your dads?”

“In a bit,” Elio says. “He texted me this morning to let me know Dr. Ellison will be joining us for dinner.”

Oliver freezes mid way through twisting the soy milk cap off. (Elio keeps it here now, just in case).

“You don’t think they’re…”

Elio’s eyes go massive. “Do _you_?” Oliver shrugs, totally equivocating the answer.  Elio groans, throwing his head on top of his arms, dramatically. “Now I do wish I could come with you.”

Oliver reaches across the counter and tussles Elio’s hair.

With their coffees, or whatever you want to call them,  in hand, they make their way over to the couch. Oliver turns the volume up just enough to hear but not enough to bug Elio who happily opens his lap top, his feet crossed on the coffee table. His attention is drawn momentarily to those naked toes and that’s when he sees a neatly folded piece of paper nearby with Elio’s name in bold font listed on the front.

“What’s this?” Oliver asks picking it up. He doesn’t mean the actual program itself; he can read the concert title, venue, date and time and deduce its designated purpose in the universe. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“It’s not like you would have come.”

“Of course, I would.” Oliver opens the bifold paper, scanning the titles, taking a small thrill from seeing Elio’s name listed as the composer, not once but twice. “You know I love listening to your stuff and I hardly ever get to hear it live.”

“That’s wouldn’t have been conspicuous at all.” Elio says. He shuts his laptop and pushes himself up off the couch with a hand to Oliver’s thigh. He needs a refill. “Oliver Sugarman at a school of music concert.” He snickers, after the fact.

“People know we’re friends, Elio.”

“Yes, but friends don’t come to end of semester composition studio recitals. Not unless they’re playing on it, too.” He joins Oliver back on the couch, blowing some steam across the mug.  “I can hide in a stadium. Oliver. You can’t hide in a concert hall.”

Oliver fingers the corner paper. He thinks of Elio’s bout of questioning last night about duping another girl into dating him, marrying him, about perpetuating this dishonest life.

“What if I don’t want to hide anymore?”

Elio looks at him like he’s gone mad. Maybe he has.

“Don’t talk stupid,” he says, shoving his hand in Oliver face if smashing him with an imaginary pumpkin pie. He’s completely missing the serious tone of Oliver voice. Or is choosing to ignore it.

“Besides.” Elio twists, grabbing his phone off the side table before settling back on the corner of the couch, his feet tucked up so his knees nearly reach his chin. “Then we wouldn’t be able to use the super sneaky emoji text code I’ve come up with to get us through the day.”

Oliver is happy to relinquish his life altering musings as Elio crawls into his lap, a puckish smile on his lip.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. _Seriously_? He asks with a single look. _Seriously_ , Elio answers back with a look of his own.

Elio has sent him several heart eyes followed by a rain cloud.

“Ok, so that’s for when I’m remembering that blow job you game me in the shower at your place last week.”

Oliver tosses his head back against the couch cushion as he snorts indelicately.

Elio sends a sleeping face. Oliver lifts his phone above his head to read, tilting the screen down so he can read.

“Well, I think I know that one means..”

“Bored.” They intone at the same time.

Elio types again then they wait the fraction of a second for the data to rocket into outer space before zooming back onto Oliver’s phone.

It’s an eggplant followed by squirting water.

Oliver laughs again. Elio is just too much sometimes. “What exactly are you planning on getting up to at your dad’s house today anyway?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs innocently. “Turkeys take a long time to cook. It’s going to be a long day.”

One final text comes through. A long series of eye roll emojis.

“Let me guess. When your dad starts talking about Herodotus?”

“No, this is for when I’m annoyed your cock isn’t close by to service me.”

Oliver looks up at him. “In other words, it’s how you’ll tell me that you miss me.”

Elio pouts thoughtfully, tossing his phone away and circling Oliver’s neck with his arms. “Not, that I miss you in as much that just I hate everyone that gets to be with you when I’m not.”

It’s quintessential Elio. Revealing so much if only you know how to read beneath the prickly, sarcastic surface. Luckily, Oliver considers himself fluent.

He flips him onto the couch with ease, settling gently between his hips.

“For the record,” he says. “I hate everyone that’s around you when I’m not too.”

Elio smiles into the kiss as they make some more memories to remember each other by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're ever in Chicago, the John Hancock building is a must see. Go to the bar instead of the observation deck - it's only a floor below and you only have to buy a drink instead of a costly ticket! Super romantic. :)
> 
> Scordatura is a term used when a composer asks a string player to change the pitch of one of their strings up or down. For example, a string that usually sounds a C may be asked to become a B-flat. 
> 
> Man...Oliver is having THOUGHTS, isn't he?
> 
> I promise you...stick with me here over these next few chapters. It's gonna get worse before it gets better. xx


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver asks Elio to meet him at the stadium.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be actual shite, but whatever...

**_YES! We are @BIGTEN regular season and @bigtenchamps WINNERS!! Congrats @msu_football Spartans on a great game but we’re headed to the @rosebowlgame and @CFBPlayoffs!!!!!! #winning #cantstop #northwesternfb #bringingitbacktoIndy @nufootballfam_ **  
**_\- Twitter, Dec. 1, @OSugarmanSugarush._ **

The lowest low he’d felt after the Michigan game is nothing compared to the high he’s feeling now.

“This is just the first one, boys.”

Coach is giddy, his hair sopping wet from both the traditional water-cooler-full-of-blue-gatorade-over-the-coach’s-head in the waning minutes of the game but also the post game locker room celebration. They aren’t allowed champagne to spray all over the place like professional teams do (half the team is still underage, afterall) but somehow, the team managers had managed to sneak in with them a small armory of water guns from campus to use instead.

Oliver’s jersey is positively soaked through right down to his pads from friendly, euphoric fire.

“We got one more Championship to go.  We’re going to go to Pasadena.” Coach states. There is a small surge of affirmative cheers. “We’re going to get those Rose Bowl rings.”

“I already got my finger picked out for it and everything, Coach.” Oliver smiles, looking over his shoulder towards the sound of Des’ voice, loud and clear from where he stands at the back of the room. Ruiz is next to him, streaming the whole locker room bedlam to his Instagram.

“It’s going to look real pretty on you, Des,” Coach agrees.

The communal enthusiasm is growing, a compounding ripple just waiting to burst as Coach more stalks and walks across the front of the room. He loves the way Coach can rile everyone up without needing to resort to shouting or some over the top display. He has enough power in his words alone, like some great orator of old.

“Then we bring it back, here right, to Indy. Georgia, Notre Dame, all those other teams who think they’re gonna be here on Monday night, they haven’t won here. This is our field now. We own it.”

Oliver cheers that statement, using his best captain’s voice as others woop around him.

“One month, boys,” Coach states with a finger of matching number. “If we keep working hard for one more month, I promise you, I _promise_ \- we will be National Champions.”

The locker room erupts into a shower of cheers. Oliver’s voice is raw by the end. He’s certain he’s never sung the fight song louder or with more conviction.

The bus ride home has a similar party atmosphere, music playing from phone speakers, loud laughter, broad smiles and high fives from players and staff alike as Oliver eventually settles in the back of the bus with Des.

It’s a remarkable moment, made all the better by sharing it with his best friend. Oliver gives him a high five and a fist bump and pulls his phone out confident that Des is feeling equally sentimental, even if he doesn’t say it.

The notifications are ridiculous and most are not worth reading.

There’s a single text from Chiara, somber and conciliatory. _So happy for you, Oliver. Call me over break if you want. It would be good to talk. X_

They haven’t gone so far as to announce their breakup publicly on any social media platform, but considering she’d spent most of Thanksgiving break tweeting sad breakup song lyrics and making posts about the Maui Invitational Basketball Tournament, Oliver figures people will catch on soon enough.

Elio’s one message had been sent only moments after the game ended, which could only mean he’d been watching. _Sparta falls! Fuck yes_. Against habit and better judgement, Oliver leaves the text and doesn’t delete it, smiling as he scrolls over to Twitter instead.

Because at some point between the end of Thanksgiving break where he’d stayed with Elio every night and this moment on the bus, racing past the steel mills outside Gary that spew gruesome flames into the flat night of rural Indiana, Oliver had made a decision.

And with that decision has come the calm of knowing something with utmost certainty. Much like that morning, all those years ago, when he’d faced himself in his bathroom mirror and identified himself as gay, Oliver feels no panic now, no sadness or unease. Just certainty. As if he can’t imagine why this wasn’t clear to him from the start.

By the time they arrive back on campus, it’s nearly midnight and the temperature has dropped considerably. Most of Oliver’s teammates, exhausted and cold, filter away quickly but Oliver finds himself lingering. The captain making sure everyone is squared away. The senior savoring every last nuance of his final season.

“Sugarman.” Coach approaches from behind where Oliver is staring up the giant Northwestern sign, illuminated above the stadium’s main entrance.  “You did it.” He says, pulling Oliver into a hug. They’d hugged plenty after the game, but this one feels different. Less coach to player. More father to son.

The first time Oliver had come to Evanston, it had been on a recruitment trip. His junior year season had just ended in defeat, runners up for State Champions. He’d already done well at the combine in Atlanta the summer before so between that and his near victory at the state level, he’d picked up plenty of interest from schools across the country. But Northwestern hadn’t really been on his radar.

Nevertheless, he’d been flown out to Illinois for that January weekend along with Des. Escorted by an assistant coach, picked up in a black Escalade, they’d even gotten to skip 8th period to make their flight. Their 17 year old selves could hardly get over how cool they were.

He’d loved the campus, loved the lake, loved the stadium, loved the offer of a full ride plus the chance to start as a first-year freshman. And he’d loved that his best friend had loved it too.

But most of all, he’d loved Coach. Loved the even way he commanded respect from the players, treating them as individuals and with what you could even call, kindness. He loved the way Coach spent several hours with him going over the video of his losing championship game, explaining why he would have made a different call for that play, how he would have coached Oliver to move differently, or select a different receiver to complete the play. He’d been patient and nurturing, a true teacher of the game.

Coach had also given him a gift that weekend, something simple and modest in the grand scheme of big money college sports. It was a book called the _Inner Game of Tennis_. In it, the author talks about ways to silence the voice inside, “the inner critic” as he calls it, that can get in head of an athlete in the midst of competition. This is voice that is judging instead of concentrating. Critiquing instead of planning ahead. The voice that latches onto mistakes instead of letting go and adjusting.

Oliver had read it the entire flight home, touched to the core that coach could already sense the anxieties and self-doubt that plagued him. Oliver had (and obviously still does if the loss at Michigan showed him anything) struggled with an impostor syndrome. Never feeling good enough. Unsure if he is cut out to bear the immense weight that’s been placed on his shoulders. For Coach, over the course of only one weekend, to have recognized those uncertainties and gift him with the book as a wordless offer to work together towards calming them had felt incredibly affirming. Like he’d found the mentor he’d been waiting for all along.

He’d arrived home and told his parents he wanted to be a Northwestern Wildcat.

“Two more games, right?” Oliver says, pulling back.

Coach smiles that his words had gotten through. ”This is true. But it’s ok to celebrate this one too. No matter what happens in your future, no one can ever take this from you, Oliver. Don’t ever forget that. I know I won’t.”

The wind and the moment create a tightness in Oliver’s chest. The moon is bright white overhead. If only Coach new how prophetic those words might become.

“Do you think it would be alright if I just...spent some time here? On my own?” Oliver asks. “It’s just kinda hit me I’m never going to play here again.”

This massive structure of turf and steel has felt like a second home, a refuge, these past four years. Coach clasps his upper arm.

“As far as I’m concerned you can stay all night. Stay until next season, even. Sure would make my job easier.”

Oliver laughs. That brief exhales instantly creates a white puff of air in front of him. “I’m not so sure about that.”

Coach picks up his bag, keys already in hand. His BMW is parked nearby. “I’m gonna miss you, kid. And not just on the field.”

As Coach starts to walk away, Oliver asks offhandedly, “I never thanked you for Rome, did I?” Coach turns back. “I mean not properly, at least. I know you could have taken the team anywhere but you went there for me.” Coach is getting emotional, his thoughtful face becoming more whistful. It’s been a long journey for him to this point too.

“That trip changed my life in ways I’m still discovering.”

“You’re making me cry now, Sugarman. And it’s too damn cold to cry.” He turns back one last time, saluting Oliver with two fingers before unlocking his car, turning over the ignition and driving away.

Oliver waits until he can’t see his tail lights anymore before getting his phone out. He bites at the fore finger of his gloves, pulling it off so he can type as quickly as possible.

                          _Meet me at the stadium._

Elio doesn’t leave him waiting long.  
                                                                                                                                                        _I see. You win one championship and are_

_suddenly making demands._

_Why?_

  
                            _Just get your ass over here._

                                                                                                                                                        _Where at the stadium? It’s not exactly small_

  
                            _You’ll know._

Oliver shivers, though he's not sure it has anything to do with the temperature. He sends one last text, just in case.

                          _And wear a hat though cause it’s fucking freezing._

  
*

“Holy shit.”

Elio’s voice sounds impossibly small as he emerges through one of the tunnels and out onto the field.

He’d taken an Uber from his place, the driver giving him an odd look when he’d asked to be taken to the stadium, “Then just drive around the block, I guess?”

“You know the game was hours ago and in a different state, right?”

Elio had simply rolled his eyes and texted Oliver that he was on his way.

The lights at the south gate were on, so that’s where he’d gotten dropped off. Beyond the gate, was a field level tunnel, its lights on too while the others around it remained dark. It was as if Oliver had been lighting his way to him, an electric trail of rose petals.

Spaces this large compel the gaze upwards, so Elio cranes his neck, trying to take it all in. He feels like he’s just stepped out onto the biggest concert stage of his life and at the very center of it, with his hands clasped gently behind his back and a knit cap pulled low over his forehead, is Oliver, waiting for him.

Elio comes to stop a few feet away, his toes just over the line mid-field line. He’s not sure what exactly is happening here, but Oliver answers for him, pulling him by the wrist into a massive hug, before kissing him soundly on the lips, his wooly-gloved hand on his jaw. Oliver’s nose is as rosy cold as his cheeks, his face moulded from pure happiness.

“What do you say?” He asks, lightly. “You up for a game?”

“Ah. No.” Elio says firm as he spins out of Oliver’s grasp. He catches Oliver’s lighthearted look, one that said he'd known that would be Elio’s answer and doesn't even have a ball.

The grass feels brittle under Elio’s boots, icy and trimmed to precision, as he circles around Oliver, eyes cast to the highest seat and beyond. Without the stadium lights on, the rows upon rows of purple bleachers that stretch up on either side of him look nearly black, but even so, Elio can make out the Northwestern “N” imprinted on the back of the seats.

When he’s watched on TV or from the stands, the scope of things has been totally skewed. This expansive field seems far smaller when viewed from a distance or through a lens. Even gaining a single yard of the 100 that stretches from end-zone to end-zone feels like an impossible feat to Elio now that he’s at eye level. It only goes to further highlight Oliver’s talents that he can control the breadth of this playing field with ease.

“It must be deafening,” Elio says. Oliver catches him by his elbow and playfully pulls him back against the puffy coat of his chest. Elio feels himself relax into his arms, tapping into that basal stillness that flows through his limbs whenever Oliver is with him.

“Even if they’re booing, they’re there making noise for you. Who knows, maybe one day you’ll perform for a stadium crowd.”

“I’m not the Beatles, Oliver. Or The Rolling Stones.”

Oliver shrugs with a non-commital noise, as if to say _Hey, you never know._

“It’s the biggest rush in the entire world, though. The crowd, the band, the cameras. But then needing to shut all that out and just focusing on the game. It’s addicting.”

Elio can imagine so, knowing the thrill of performing, although on a much smaller scale, many times himself. “I’m sure it is.”

“There’s only one other thing in the world that's ever felt as good.”

Oliver whispers that, nuzzling his face into the warmest part of Elio’s neck. Elio shivers at the touch even as he snickers at Oliver’s cheesy line.

“Hey, come on, don’t,” Oliver complains but there is laughter in his voice too. “I’m trying to create a moment here.”

He grabs Elio’s waist, turning him so they are face to face.

“I came back to school for my senior year to win a championship. And Elio, I’m so close. So close.” His eyelids fall softly, almost like it pains him to think of how cruel it would be for him to falter now.

Elio rubs his mitted hands over Oliver’s arms in support. Six months ago he would not have even known what Oliver is talking about, let alone cared in the slightest. But he does now. He wants nothing short of everything for Oliver.

“All that I’ve accomplished this season.” He motions at stadium. “I've done while giving in to the one thing I thought would hold me back. Finding the one thing I thought I could never have.” A pointed but gentle glance down ensures Elio know he’s talking about him.

“If I do this,” Oliver says, his voice resolute. “If I win these next two games like I know I can, no one can tell me that I can’t be who I really am anymore.”

He takes a quick inhale of frigid air.

“Which is why I’m going to do it.”

Gives himself a final determined nod.

“I’m going to come out.”

Elio takes a few steps back, feeling every single degree below freezing flood into his veins.

“But you...you’ve said, from the very beginning, that you never could. You _can’t_ , Oliver.”  

“But I can because I already have.” Oliver closes the space Elio had created with a single step. “Don’t you see? I can _be_ both, Elio. Football player and gay. This past semester has shown me that because I’ve won, I’ve led the team, all the while sleeping with a man, falling in love with him.”

All urgency has slipped from Oliver’s face, replaced with tender simplicity.

“I love you, Elio,” he says, his breath visibly swirling around them. “And I want to hold your hand on the way to class. I want you to meet my parents and not have to hide how much you mean to me. For once in my fucking life, I just want to be honest and the truth is that I want to be your boyfriend. God, who knows.” Oliver’s head tips forward, their hat-covered foreheads touching. “In a few years time, maybe even more than that.”

“ _More_?” Elio pulls back and swallows thick. “You want to…”

“Well, not right now obviously.” Oliver is still smiling, if not a little bashfully.  He is still bewilderingly at ease with the world and this idea he’s promoting even while it makes Elio's head pound. “But haven’t you ever thought about it? Cause I have. What it might look like...if you and me...”

“Yes,” Elio answers too quickly. He feels like he’s just answered Oliver’s proposal and for a second Elio even finds him believing in it. In some perfect utopia where Oliver loses nothing and they both gain everything, he could imagine it.  But just as quickly he regroups, slamming them both back down to the frozen earth.

He begins pacing as Oliver listens intently, his brow gently creased with the first glimmer of concern.

“Ok, so say you do this. Say you come out. Maybe Ellen invites you onto her show and Obama tweets you his congratulations and the Human Rights Campaigns names you their Person of the Year. What about the other half of this country?” Elio asks. “What about the vocal, vicious half that thinks two men together are a sin, an abomination? Isn’t that the same half that fills professional stadiums like this every Sunday afternoon?”

Oliver opens his mouth to protest but Elio cuts him off with a halting hand.

“What if you don’t get drafted at all? Or you are but some bigoted coach tells his players to target you with the intent to hurt you, or _worse_? What if your career is over before it even starts?”

“Then it would be worth it cause I’d have you.”

“But then what in a few years time you decide you don’t even want to be with me anymore?”

“That’s not possible.” Oliver says.

The edge in his voice gives Elio pause and he turns to where Oliver stands, defiant and determined, unmovable by any amount of reason. He really means what he’s saying and is acting ridiculous and cavalier enough with his whole future that he might actually do it.

Oliver would risk throwing this all away... _for him._

With the moonlight cascading across Oliver’s wide shoulders, Elio has never been prouder to know any man in his whole life. To be able to call Oliver his friend, his lover.  

An image that he hopes he’ll carry with him for the rest of his life flashes through his memory: his first glimpse of Oliver in his doorway in Rome, summer tan and hesitant yet willing to present himself to a total stranger for even a taste of happiness. Of course that man and the one standing before him are one and the same.

Perhaps Elio had fallen in love with Oliver right then.  And maybe one day, Oliver will find a way to forgive him for it.

“You’ve known me for all of what...four months?” Elio asks with a quick shift in tone.  Oliver nods, not really bothering to check Elio’s math. “And now you’re talking about marriage?” He contorts the sob bubbling in his chest into a vicious laugh instead.   Oliver flinches at the sound.  “We met on Grindr for fucks sake, on a night we both horny and lonely.  And yeah, things got intense but we thought we’d never see each other again.”

“So?”

“So.  Feelings were never supposed to come into this.”

“But they did.”

Elio cocks his head, as if pitying him.  “No one meets the love of his life on Grindr.”

“I did.”

Elio clenches his jaw. Why must Oliver make this so impossibly difficult for him?

“You only think that cause I’m your first,” Elio says with a detached wave of his hand. “Go fuck a few more guys and then get back to me.”

“Don’t say that.” Oliver says once.  Then grabs him and says it again, even more emphatically.  "Don't say that, Elio. Please."  

The way his voice cracks over his name is enough to break Elio’s heart. His fingers curled around Elio’s elbow are both desperate and pleading and still so painfully familair.

“You know what I think this is,” Elio dives back into the act again.  He finally works up the courage to meet Oliver’s gaze but with a narrowed, accusatory look. “I think this is about Chiara. I think you’re actually pretty broken up about your picture perfect future wife leaving you for some other hot shot on campus so you just imprinted that same fantasy onto the nearest warmest body.”

“Fuck you.” Oliver’s hand finally falls away along with a stuttering breath.

“Well, you did do that didn’t you? Pretty decently, too, for a virgin.”

Elio has quite literally made himself sick by the lies and vitriol he’s creating and all he wants is to escape from all this and hate himself in peace.  Only if Oliver would let him.

“Don’t do this,” Oliver pleads softly, tears falling freely from his eyes. “I know you, Elio. I know what you’re trying to do and you don’t…”

“This was always going to end, Oliver!” he interrupts with a shout.  His voice, loud and final, echos in the stadium and he needs a moment to catch his breath, each shallow inhale full of ice and pain. “So consider it finished.”

Even he cannot stop the tears that break through his hate-filled veneer. Not when realization finally passes across Oliver’s face and it looks so very much like defeat.

He steps in close, brushing Oliver’s jaw with the backside of his hand. The fibers of his glove catch in his stubble, as if even they do not want Elio to let go.  He hopes the slight tremble in his fingers does not belie the cruel touch he means it to be.

“At least we’ll always have Rome, right?” he asks, offering one final, ruthless salvo.

With a toss of his head to shake off the tears, Elio turns. He stuffs his hands in pockets and walks back the way he came, ignoring the way Oliver’s voice is being carried off by the wind as he calls his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY ENDING.
> 
> I promise, I promise just like Coach.
> 
> Also, Maui Invitation is a big basketball tournament that happens over Thanksgiving break every year. Northwestern is also pretty mediocre at bball so the irony does not escape me. 
> 
> Inner Game of Tennis is a great book, often suggested at music schools as well. Anyone who deals with performance anxiety of any kind would benefit from a read! I know I did!


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Des is the best best friend ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shortish but wanted to get this out since everyone has been SO patient with me and my existential crises. LOL Special thanks to those who have listened to all my hemming and hawing this past week. You know who you are. xx

**_This is the College Football Playoff Selection Show, brought to you by AT &T…._ **  
**_Georgia. Northwestern. Notre Dame. Ohio State. USC._ **  
**_WHO IS IN?_ **  
**_Dec. 3, 2018_ **

The entire team has assembled in the atrium of the student union to watch. They’re all seated in their matching NU tracksuits with Oliver front and center along with the other seniors and Coach. The rest of the seats are filled with the team, staff and trainers, the Athletic Director and members of his office, operations managers from the stadium and other fancy people in suits that Oliver doesn’t recognize but they must be important if they are here. His parents, who had driven up from Indianapolis that morning where they had watched the Championship game, are somewhere in the crowd.

The space is decorated for the broadcast with massive purple banners hanging vertically from the ceiling, rippling gently when the heating system kicks on. The cheerleaders and members of the marching band form a ring around the second-floor balcony. This is a massive moment, not just for Oliver as an individual player or the team as a whole but for the whole university, a chance to be in the national spotlight, so they’ve put their best foot forward.

The ESPN camera crew is set up opposite them, their bright lights shining from behind a bank of television monitors so the team can watch the broadcast. Outside, there are trucks ready to live stream their reactions, splicing into that same broadcast, when the announcement of who has made it into the playoffs is finally made.

_We begin with the number one overall seed, earning an automatic berth to the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, CA on New Year’s Eve. After winning the Big Ten regular season title outright and also beating Michigan State yesterday in the Big 10 Championship game, this of course are the Wildcats of Northwestern University…_

The room erupts into waves of sound before the sportscaster’s sentence is even finished.

Oliver jumps to his feet. He claps his hands. He cheers. He smiles. He high fives Des and pulls him into a brief hug. He accepts a hearty handshake from Coach.

He feels nothing.

Oliver somehow walked off that frozen field last night, finding his way back to his apartment only to wake up in the morning on top of his blankets with his shoes still on. But his brain - his heart - are still there, shivering as he watches Elio walk away.

This isn’t grief, at least not yet. This is still just shock. A numbing mix of nausea and anxiety and crippling distress all twisted in his stomach. I doesn’t feel real yet. He’s unable to process the way Elio had not only torn his colossal decision down but then ripped every beautiful thing they’d curated together to jagged little pieces. It’s nearly impossible to bear, especially after Oliver offered him so much.

The broadcast ends almost as quickly as it begins and suddenly the whole scene is completely overwhelming. The noise of the milling, celebratory crowd. The way everyone wants to shake his hand. Everyone is looking to their captain, their leader. They all want a sound bite and an All-American smile. But Oliver just can’t be who they want him to be right now, his thoughts stuck somewhere else, his heart lagging painfully behind.

He needs to get away from all this before people start to notice just how mentally checked out he is.

He works his way towards the back of the room, excusing himself from eager teammates or coaches with what he hopes are polite enough smiles and excuses. He even brushes past his dad, spinning away almost like he would a defensive players on the field, as he reaches out to clasp Oliver arm.

“I just need a minute,” he says at his dad’s disgruntled heft of his arms. He presses a quick kiss to his mom’s cheek before she can even offer her congratulations.

He makes a break for it once he's out of the atrium, pushing his way through a set of fire doors. His long, urgent strides carry him down a hallway until he finally finds some privacy in an empty meeting room.

A motion sensor lights click on as the door closes behind him, compact fluorescent light filling the space.

All the air in the room feels like it’s caught too high in his chest, as if he can’t get enough to it press down into his lungs. A small logical part of his brain recognizes he’s probably having a panic attack. He drops to a chair, his elbows propped so he can push the heels of his hands into his eyes so hard he sees stars. Those shallow breaths multiply, tumbling over each other, becoming shaky before dissolving into sobs.

Oliver can’t remember the last time he cried like this but who can blame him?

There was nothing false about what he and Elio shared. It was all openness and expression by the end, which is ironic considering theirs was a completely secret affair. But Oliver has lived the whole “fake relationship” act long enough that he knows how to tell the difference. And he knows emotional connections like the one he’s felt with Elio cannot exist in isolation. Feelings this rich cannot be felt unilaterally or as if in a vacuum. There is no way Oliver could have fallen so deeply if Elio wasn’t there next to him, falling at the exact same rate.

He knows Elio loves him. That truth has been there for weeks, laying in bed together, at the top of the John Hancock building.

That truth was there last night when Elio admitted to imagining a future together.

That truth was even there in Elio’s purposeful cruelty, as if he was willing to say anything to get Oliver to hate him, there in his departing tears, there in the way he’d reached out for him one last time as if desperate to preserve a memory.

“Knock, knock.”

Des wraps his knuckles against the door in time with his words as he peeks around the door frame. Oliver can’t be sure if it’s the sight of his best friend or the emotional purge of his crying fit, but he does feels slightly better. He can breathe again at least, able to center the universe back into the plum line.

“Yo, cap,” Des says, his voice soft and concerned at the state of Oliver. There’s no use trying to hide his wet, red eyes now Des has already seen him, but Oliver wipes away what he can regardless.

“Hey,” Des says, pulling up a chair and putting a comforting hand on his back. “I know this is a lot but these are happy tears right?”

Oliver laughs around a sob and sniffs. “Obviously not.”

Des seems lost for a moment because clearly this is a life and career defining moment. Oliver should be just as elated as Des is. He goes with what is most logical.

“Is this still about Chiara? That two timing bitch....”

“Do _not_ call her that,” Oliver says so emphatically Des sits back slightly. “This has nothing to do with her. If I’m totally honest, I’m happy for her.”

This statement has not helped clarify the situation to Des at all. “Then what’s going on, man?”

Oliver thinks of the day they met, how everyone at school seemed hesitant about the new kid with the gentle accent and the different colored skin. They grew up in the liberal northeast where no one would dare admit to any culturally inherited racism and yet, their town was almost completely white with very few families of color, let alone one from a different country. That first day, the kids in their 7th grade class had tried so hard not to come off as being freaked out by having a black kid in their class so ended up acting totally fake and weird.

Oliver had been the one to see the way he was watching a pick up game after school that first day and asked him to join.

After that is was years of sleepovers with X-box until 3am, travel league, awkward middle school dances, JV football, summer institutes, injuries, Homecoming Court, parties in Des’s basement hoping his parents didn’t come home, fights with teammates where they always had each others backs even if that meant pointing out they were wrong, State Champs, Prom, after Prom, moving halfway across the country but sticking together. Always together.

If he can’t tell Des the truth how is he ever supposed to tell the rest of the world?

Oliver clasps his hands pressing them to the table so they don’t tremble. He can feel his heart beating high in his throat.

“I’m going to tell you something that might make you hate me,” he says, swallowing heavily..

“Shut up”

“No, I’m serious, Des.” Oliver turns to face him even as he feels tears start again.

“Yeah, and so am I. You're my brother,” Des says just like Oliver knew he would. He reaches for his shoulder, companionable and strong. “There is nothing you could say that’s gonna change that.

“Everything but this.”

“You’re freaking me out, man,” Des says, with hushed confusion.

“I’m gay.”

It’s like ripping off a band-aid only instead of the painful sting dissipating in a flash it only intensifies as Des pushes his chair back away from Oliver, his face drawn and palid.

“What did you say?” He breathes.

“I’m gay.” He hasn’t said those exact words out loud since that morning in front of his bathroom mirror so repeating them twice in the course of a minute feels immense. “Not only that but I’ve been sleeping with a man all semester behind everyone’s back.”

“You’re…You can’t be.”

“I am.”

An expression spreads across his face that Oliver could only describe as abhorrence. He stands up, putting as much space between himself and Oliver as he can. It’s his worst nightmare come true. First Elio, now Des, rejecting him.

“I knew it...I knew you’d hate me.” Oliver nearly sobs. Maybe Elio had been right. Maybe he really can’t do this, regardless of all he’s achieved. Maybe the closet is the only place he’ll ever be safe and respected and loved.

“Will you just give me a fucking second, before you start putting words in my mouth?” Des asserts with a halting hand in Oliver’s direction. “This is just...not what I was expecting you to say. Like at all.”

Des sits back down. After a long moment of silence and a tempering exhale he asks, “How long have you known?”

Oliver’s head lilts sadly, emoting a touch of desperation to the answer he’s about to give. “I’ve always known.”

“So Chiara? She was…”

Oliver shrugs. “She was...for a long time, the person I thought I would be with for the rest of my life. Truly. I’d had myself convinced that being with her was what was going to make me happy. But at the end of the day, she was just a cover. I mean, she’s my friend and I care about her. But I was never in love with her. “

Des sits with that answer for a long while, acknowledging it with a soft nod. An unreadable series of thoughts pass across Des’s face. Then he turns towards Oliver, punching him square in his non throwing arm.

“The hell, Des?” He cups his arm tenderly.

  
“How long we known each other, Ollie?” Des isn’t confused or disgusted. He’s pissed. “What we been through, you and me? _Everything_ ,” he enunciates. “And you wait this long to tell me? The fuck, man?”

Wait, this is what he’s upset about? Not the fact that Oliver’s gay but that he hadn’t told him sooner?

“What?” He asks, unable to come up anything more intelligent.

“You like dudes.” He shrugs. “This doesn’t change a thing for you and me…” His face falls, turning to Oliver with total sincerity. “Unless...are you trying to tell me that you…”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Oliver pushes him playfully and Des smiles wide.

“You know I’m almost relieved. Cause let me tell you, I was beginning to wonder if you had a screw loose or something. Chiara’s sweet and all but she can be a little…” He whistles, making a circular motion by his head, and Oliver can’t help but let out an amazed laugh.

“You’re not freaked out or anything?”

“I mean, it’s not what I’m into. But you know what I’ve gotten up to with girls. Some of that shit ain’t fit for prime time,” he says with a smirk that is both boastful and scandalized by his own conquests. “So why am I going to judge you for what you want to do? You think it matters to me where you like put it?”

Oliver feels himself blush. “Well, it was usually where he liked to put it…”

“ _Okaaay_ \--ok,” Des reacts to Oliver’s statement with a slap of his hand to Oliver’s knee, holding it there with a firm grip as if to steady himself and stop Oliver from revealing any more. “That’s a lot of very private information about a part of your anatomy that I’d prefer not to think about but,” he turns serious, patting the hand still on Oliver’s leg. “But thank you. For telling me. It means a lot.”

The tears on Oliver’s face now feel like warm relief. He cannot believe his luck at having the best friend ever. He’s completely speechless.

“I assume you haven’t told anyone else?” Oliver shake his head meekly. “Good, cause if you’d came out to someone else before me...”

“I’m sure the guys I’ve been with figured it out.” Des’s eyes go wide again when Oliver uses the plural. “Sorry, if that’s TMI.”

“It’s definitely new. But I’m just glad you’re out there getting some. Shit, thinking about you and that virginity pact and not getting any for all these years was starting to make me depressed. Seriously.”

It’s more acceptance than Oliver could have ever dreamed he’d get. Unable to put into words just how grateful he is, he collapses his head onto Des’s shoulder, eliciting a chuckle and a brief one armed hug.

“So what’s his name, this guy you’ve been seeing?” Des continues as he helps Oliver set himself upright again.

“Elio.” The name feels like a painful echo.

“Show me a picture, then.”

Oliver pulls out his phone. The one picture he ever took of Elio from the night they first slept together feels too private to share, even with Des. So he pulls up Elio’s Facebook profile instead and hands Des his phone.

“He’s professor Perlman’s son. We met in Rome though, that last night when I went out on my own.”

“I thought you’d gotten off with someone that night.” Des is smiling as he scans through Elio’s pictures, as if he’s genuinely happy for him. It’s a completely baffling sight. “He’s cute. Right?”  He adds, as if to check is ability to judge male attractiveness.

“He is. Very. But it doesn’t matter any more.” Des hands him back his phone with a questioning look. “Yesterday after the game I -- I told him I loved him and that I wanted to come out for him,” he inhales, a sad, resigned breath. “And he freaked out and ended everything.”

“Fuck, for real?” Oliver nods, pocketing his phone. “Shit, man, I’m so sorry. I guess men are ass holes no matter who they date.”

“Looks like it,” Oliver says.

“What did he say when you told him?”

“Gave me a laundry list of everything that could go wrong if I went ahead with it.”

“Well, I don’t know this kid but he’s not wrong. Coming out would be taking a fucking monster risk with your career.”

“I know that,” Oliver defends himself quickly. “But he was worth that risk. We were. I’ve never felt like this before, Des…Never.” His voice catches and he bites at his lips, determined not to start crying again. But he exhausted by this emotional roller-coaster so will not be held accountable for his vulnerability.  “It’s just been so long, Des. I’m just so sick of pretending,” he says.

“So then maybe this coming out process shouldn’t be about him at all?” Des says. He turns thoughtful, resting his cheek on a propped up fist. “It’s like getting clean so your girl won’t leave you. Or trying to wear some clothes just cause you think it will make people like you. If your only motivation is someone else, you’re going to fail or look stupid trying. So if you really want to be honest about who you are, then do it for yourself, Oliver.” Des taps him in the middle of his chest with his pointer finger. “No one else.”

Just then, Ruiz pokes his head in the room. “Hey, sorry, that blond chick from ESPN wants to interview to you guys together.” Then as if sensing something important has just transpired here. “You guys ok?”

Catching Oliver’s eye, Des tilts his head toward their teammate and friend as if to say, _Tell him too. He'll be cool too._

Oliver shakes his head, curt and definite. _Not yet._

“Yeah, it’s just been a lot today,” Oliver offers the vague, semi-truth.

“What we’ve been working towards for four years.” Ruiz steps into the room to share a quick low-five with both of them.

“Tell her we’ll be there in 5 minutes,” Des answers for them both, keeping his eyes on Oliver and his smile warm.

Oliver is still completely brokenhearted unsure how he moves forward without the one person he’s truly ever loved. He has a playoff game to win in month’s time against a team that could completely destroy them if they don’t play their very best. He still has this terrifying process of opening himself up for the world to criticize if he even ends up having the guts to do it.

But at least now he knows he won’t be alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the College Football play offs are relatively new - 2018 will be their 6th year. Technically, the Rose Bowl is NOT a playoff game this year (But I just like it better) and also technically, the first round of the playoffs will take place on Dec. 28th not New Year's Eve but again...I like it better! 
> 
> Umm...Elio POV next chapter.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio, Elio, Elio, Elio...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you all. And I love these boys.

  
Elio doesn’t cry again. Instead, he drinks.

He buys cigarettes without filters and smokes them in front of his bedroom windows, flung wide open to the December cold. He stands there until his teeth start chattering, understanding for the first time why they call Chicago the Windy City.

He listens to too much James Bay and refuses to return Marzia’s calls. She finally comes banging on his door several days later and he claims innocence.

“I’ve literally been camped out in the basement practice rooms all weekend, you know there is no service there.”

He can tell Marzia doesn’t buy it for one second but she lets up on him nonetheless.

When it comes time for their Plato class final, he can’t help but watch Oliver as he enters the room, looking for any change, begging silently for a glance his way. Instead, Oliver keeps his blinders on, cruelly, painfully ignoring Elio which is nothing less than he deserves. He can barely concentrate on the final essay question, a discussion on the art of rhetoric as presented by Sophocles in Plato’s _Phaedrus_. He’s too busy wishing for just one second of eye contact, one smile, as small or broken as it might be. He writes some incoherent drivel, knowing his grade will suffer but not really caring.

Elio waits in the hall after the exam is over to try and catch him on his own.

“Oliver.” The name feels oil slick in his mouth, like its some forbidden thing he is no longer granted access to. Oliver stops, lifting his eyes towards the ceiling either in exasperation or in search of strength. He keeps his distance but turns his head just enough to let Elio know he’s listening. “I just wanted to wish you good luck this weekend. At the award presentation in New York.”

For a minute Oliver’s face opens, genuinely touched by Elio’s offer of support. “I didn’t think you’d...”

 _Remember?_ Elio thinks, with an ache in his chest. _God, Oliver, of course I would._ The Heisman Trophy, perhaps the most prestigious award in all of college sports, is awarded to the most outstanding player of the year. It will be awarded on Saturday at a special ceremony at Madison Square Garden. Oliver had been a favorite all season long and he’d expressed to Elio on more than one occasion how much he’d love to win. Just another feather in his already highly decorated cap.

This feels like a possible in and Elio dares to push himself off the wall and take a step forward. Maybe they could just keep carrying on as they had before, before Oliver had drawn his line in the sand. Things had been ok before, hadn’t they? 

But then the look on Oliver’s face shutters. He moves on, brushing Elio off with a negligent, “Right. Thanks,” like he would any wannabe fan, desperate to be close to the celebrity they admire, not the man he’d professed his love less than a week ago.

Oliver wins the award. Elio can’t help but see the news, plastered as it is across every form of Northwestern’s social media. He even watches a video of the presentation that gets posted to Twitter, a shaved down version of the hour long ceremony: clips of Oliver waiting nervously in the front row with the other nominees all of whom dressed in fancy, custom suits just for the occasion. Oliver’s is the most classic, the most toned-down, dark grey and pinstriped, but still exquisite. It shows Oliver as he hugs his parents, his coach and a man Elio only assumes is his newly acquired agent after his name is read, joining all the past winners up on the stage. He delivers a short but sincere speech where he offers his thanks to all of those who have supported him along the way.

Elio finds himself wondering if he’d let things go differently that night of the field if his own name would have been included on that list.

He thought he’d known heartbreak in Paris but he realizes all too quickly that that experience hadn’t been heartbreak at all but some far less mortal would. A damaged ego, maybe. A crush that had amounted to nothing and became petty. It was nothing like the bone weary, unrelenting sadness Elio continues to feel even as he the semester ends and he flies to Dresden to celebrate the end of Hanukkah with his mother and her young lover.

The weather is wet and cold and even the bright lights and delicious smells of the Weihnachtsmarkt cannot put him in any sort of seasonal mood. The over the top affection of his mother and the man she left his father for makes Elio’s skin crawl. Like they are flaunting just how much they adore and want each other.

The Instagram posts Oliver is tagged in back home in Massachusetts for the break make him feel equally vile, borderline angry, though he won’t allow himself to go so far as call it jealous. There seem to be a steady stream of shots of Oliver propped up next to pretty blond girls he must have known in high school, his smile sleazy and possibly drunk and so very empty for a man who is sitting on top of the world.

Elio returns to Chicago just before Christmas, little more to him than a date on the calendar. His apartment feels especially cluttered after a week in the world of European minimalism.

So he purges. Clothes he no longer wears and books he no longer reads, hoping it helps scrub Oliver from his life when he realizes that none of this has anything to do with him. Just the purposelessness it’s left him with.

Their entanglement didn’t come with any of the sentimental trappings of a normal relationship - movie stubs or pictures scattered through the gallery on your phone or tags on social media or pieces of clothing accidentally left behind. They had been exacting in how clean they had left each other's lives, leaving no trail for the outside world to chase. If only they had been more careful with how deeply they’d meshed together on inside. Elio doesn’t even have a text conversation to scroll back through. All he has it that one picture of Oliver holding him close that night in bed, and he refuses to part with that. No matter what kind of closure it’s erasure might afford him.

Eventually he crawls out of his torpor to make New Year’s Eve plans with Marzia and Sam.

After several bottles of bubbly and several joints of Marzia’s choicest kind, she insists on watching the game, much to Elio’s agitation.

“Why has everyone on this campus become so obsessed with football?”

“Because it’s the playoffs, Elio!” Marzia states, remote in one hand, plastic champagne flute in the other. “It’s a big deal for our school.”

“Well, it isn’t a big deal to me,” he nearly slurs, leering down at Marzia.

“Well, it is to your friend Oliver,” Marzia parrots back, matching Elio’s disdainful, nasal tone.

Elio flops to the couch with a pout next to Sam, who has in all likelihood has already fallen asleep behind his glittery 2019 glasses while he and Marzia had argued.

“He’s not my friend anymore,” Elio mutters and can tell Marzia wants to ask more but his unrelenting glare at the TV monitor is enough to stop any probing questions in her mouth.

Northwestern wins.  Because of course they do.

Elio crumbles as the game clock on the screen ticks down to zero and the night edges towards midnight. This is why he’d done what he did, isn’t it? Gone and broken both their hearts? So Oliver could live this dream storyline to completion? Have these victories? Revel in his success? Live his perfect life where there can be no room for a male partner? Hadn’t Elio left him so that Oliver Sugarman could continue being _Oliver Sugarman_?

Instead of going to the roof of Marzia’s building to watch the fireworks being set off from a barge in the middle of Lake Michigan, he opens his Grindr app and rings in the new year with some nameless guy’s face between his legs.

“You know what they say about who you’re with on New Year’s Eve, right?” They guy asks after Elio had bitterly returned the favor. He must be just as drunk and miserable as Elio is.

His romantic insinuations make Elio sick and he kicks the guy out even before the last firework bursts outside his window. Then he empties the contents his stomach into the toilet more than once before dragging himself to his bed and passing out.

Hungover and bitchy, Elio goes to a New Year’s Day party at his father’s place. It’s a grown up affair with top-shelf wine and little canapés and crudités and all other forms of pretentious French sounding finger-food.

Many of his father’s work friends are there, including Dr. Ellison who insists he call her Jeanette now that he’s no longer in her class. Elio smiles sweetly, humoring her request even while thinking, No fucking way.

This party almost has a reminiscent feel to his parents gatherings of his childhood, where Elio is presented as this darling, clever thing who writes music and just aced Dr. Ellison, sorry, Jeanette’s class this past semester. It’s felt like ages since his father has spoken of him with uncomplicated, unreserved pride but instead of Elio playing into the moment, he finds himself sitting on the sofa, mostly in silence, until the guests start to leave.

“What’s wrong with you?” His father asks as he dumps a stack of plates onto the kitchen counter next to Elio. He hadn’t been much of a party guest, so at least he could help with this dishes. He extracts his hands from the warm water, soap suds clinging to his forearms where his shirt sleeves are rolled up past his elbows and moves the plates into the sink.

His father stands staring at him, one hip cocked to the side against the counter and his arms crossed.

“Is this because Jeanette and I are...because that seems very hypocritical of you considering you spent a week with your mother and…”

“No, dad, no,” Elio says, cutting him off. “But thank you for going ahead and confirming something that wasn’t completely obvious already. I just drank too much last night.”

“Ok, I don’t doubt that. But then what has this month long temper tantrum been about?”

“Nothing.”

“Elio.”

“What?” He asks, peevishly, grabbing a kitchen towel to dry his hands. Screw the dishes, he doesn’t to talk about it.

But his father isn’t about to let him duck out this time. All it takes is one dubious lift of his father’s eyebrow and Elio feels himself set his hips back against the counter as if pinned. He hates the claustrophobic feeling of being so knowable to those who have known him since his inception. His first breath, even. He hates the inevitability that is wearing him down to the point where Elio knows he will tell his father everything.

Hates it and yet knows, deep down, just how desperately he needs it.

“Why do people always...” Elio starts before cutting himself off with a bite of his lips. He huffs through his nose. Weeks of pent of loneliness and insecurity about his decision are about to come racing out, he can tell.

“Look, the world is never going to change, right? I mean, it’s always going to be filled with small minded little assholes. So why even try and fight that? Why make some big statement about who you are and what you feel? Why make a stand, when you know it’s not going to change a damn thing, and make some grand announcement and come out to everyone when you know that if you do that you risk losing everything that you’ve been preparing for your whole life...”

Elio stops, realizing he’s wandered into specifics. His father listens in stillness, hip and arms and eyebrow, the very same.

Then with infuriatingly perfect paternal kindness he asks, “Is this what Oliver offered to do for you?”

Elio’s quietly stunned look gives his father every answer he needs.

His father makes a chipper noise at the back of his throat, his body suddenly a rush of movement.

Then with an ease that somehow does not match his petite and slightly rotund frame, he collects a half empty bottle of wine, slips two wine glasses between his fingers and begins to pour. “Much more age appropriate, this time. Well done.”

“Shut up,” Elio says, flushing. The thought of more alcohol makes his head pound, but he accepts the offered glass anyway. “How did you know?”

His father looks down to his own wine, smiling softly, as if remembering. “There was an air about the both of you whenever you were together. As if you were existing in your own universe.”

He’s not wrong.

“He must really love you. If he’s willing to do that.”

“He does,” Elio says. “He really does. Or at least, he did.”

“And you?”

Elio’s breath catches and his father’s eyelids go soft, empathetic for his heartbroken son.

“He would have lost everything if he came out and I just couldn’t let him to that. Not for me. God, I can see the Twitter shit-storm now.” Elio’s voice rides the fine edge between holding things together and breaking down completely. “Why would he do that?”

“Well, why did you do what you did in Paris?”

Elio balks, unsure why that is being brought up when it has nothing to do with Oliver. “Because I was an idiot?”  
  
“No, you did it because you felt something,” he father insists. “Something big and important. And when you feel things that are big and important you want to do things that are big and important things. Not always the right things but big things nonetheless. What Oliver offered to do was no different.”

He’s smiling gently, a twinkle in his eye. He’s gone into sage, professor mode pleased with his brilliant point.

“You know what the worst part is?”

It’s such a relief to finally talk about all of this with someone.

That had perhaps been his most fatal flaw with the events in Paris. He’d kept it all hidden. When the flirtation started, when his feeling developed, when the scales fell from his eyes and realized what had actually been going on which was absolutely nothing, Elio had remained silence. Perhaps out of excitement at the beginning, savoring the illicit, scandalous attraction Elio had been so certain they both felt. And later out of shame or spite, perhaps. Elio is self aware enough to process this lesson learned as the words keep coming.

“He was standing there, telling me these things, these beautiful things I want and that I felt too.” The palm of hand curls helplessly over his heart. “And all I could think was...I can’t go through this again.”

His father doesn’t quite follow and shakes his head, questioning.

“Say he does it,” Elio begins to lay the hypothetical outcome. “Oliver comes out and he loses any chance at a professional career. You know every news outlet on the planet is going to be searching for ‘they guy who turned him gay’.”

It’s brutal and it’s shameful, but it’s true. Elio had wanted to protect Oliver’s future with every fiber of his being, but his about-face that night in the stadium had been self-serving too.

“What happened in Paris was a small, quickly managed scandal in an insular classical world that most of the world doesn't really pay attention to, but this? This would make headlines across the world. And I just...I couldn’t be the bad guy again, dad.” He’s been speaking so constantly he doesn’t notice that tears are rolling down his face until the words barely make it past his clenched throat. “Not in his story. Not when he means so much...”

His father steps forward, setting down his wine glass, to fold Elio into his arms. Elio lets his head fall to his shoulder, his father’s warm hands moving in comforting circles across his back.

“I’m sure you would be the bad guy to some,” his father beings. Elio’s raw emotion has moved him too, his own eyes glinting as he pulls back to look at him. “But to others you’d be the second half of a love story that gave them the strength to be honest with themselves. With those around them. To live their truest life.” His hands, which had lingered on his upper arms, squeeze tight. “You’ve already done that for Oliver, can’t you see that?”

“Fuck,” Elio curses himself.

“I get that it’s a risk for you both but maybe it’s one to take together.”

If at all possible, Elio misses Oliver more than he has in all the past three weeks combined.

“I pushed him away, dad,” he rasps. “Hard.”

“Then pull him back.”

How exactly Elio is supposed to do that evades him. It seems an impossible task because, after all, nothing has really changed. The world Oliver inhabits is still terrifyingly homophobic. They are two men, in love. Any attempt at a relationship would make for a convoluted, dangerous future.

Elio supposes the only real different is his desire to try. Even if it fixes nothing.

Several times over the next few days, he picks up his phone and pulls up Oliver’s number. The team is already back in Indianapolis for final practices and preparation. (There had been a massive send off from the stadium a few days before that students and fans had been invited to. His father had texted him a link to the Twitter post about it, adding Something big and important, perhaps? The entire thing had been unsettling, cause he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want his father meddling in his love life and since when does his dad use Twitter?) He considers going old school, trying to call when he knows Oliver couldn’t answer, leaving a voice message, long and meandering.

What would he say though? _Hey, so after you’re champion of everything, can you just call me? We can get a drink or go see that jazz show? I’m a total dick, clearly._

So remarkably insufficient.

For Elio, the following Monday is just the first day of classes. But for the rest of campus, it’s Championship Day.

He spends the majority of the afternoon and evening hiding out in the safety of a practice room. He’d met with his composition teacher to talk about his senior project and plans for graduation next spring and had felt inspired. He emerges into a winter dark, and seemingly deserted, campus.

All of Evanston’s eyes, and much of country’s, are turned to television screens and computer monitors tonight, ready for the College Football National Championship game. There are massive watch parties all over town at bars, the student union, even at the stadium itself for those crazy enough to want to sit outside in this January air. But then again this is a football town, home of the Bears and people who are hearty enough when they’ve had enough beer.

Elio knows Marzia is having a small get together and part of him is tempted to go, though he wonders if that would be weird, considering. He pulls out his phone andchecks the score instead. Northwestern is leading by a margin Elio remembers to be two scores with less than twenty minutes to go. He feels a rush of happiness. Of course he wants Oliver to win.  Maybe that's all he'll ever be, just another devoted fan who cheers him on in his own private way.

Snow begins to fall as he walks the familiar route back to his apartment, the flakes fat and especially white as they play through the sky and pick up the light from the stadium. They seem to bring a glow to the entire campus.

His phone rings in his pocket. It’s his dad again. He rolls his eyes, answering the question he assumes he’ll be met with.

“No, dad, I’m not watching the fucking game.”

“Elio.” The tone of his voice is enough for his heart rate to skyrocket.

“You should get to a TV as quick as you can. It’s Oliver. He’s been hit, two guys at once. He’s unconscious on the field. He’s, umm... he’s not moving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRUST ME.
> 
> I mean...y'all did notice the eventual hurt/comfort tag I've had included in this fic since the beginning, right?


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio does something big and important.
> 
> Also, Des is there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm running out of words of gratitude here people. Each and every single one of you makes my life better. And I'm not exaggerating. Each comment, kudo, message, post, reblog, rec. It's like medicine. I LOVE LOVE LOVE YOU ALL.

He runs to Marzia’s place, not because it’s closest but because it feels safest.

“You made it,” she says as she opens the door but there is already trepidation in her voice.

The collection of people that are at her place to watch the game are all familiar faces from the music school. Each one sits forward on the edge of their respective seats in stunned silence.

Elio stands in the middle of the room, not caring whose view he blocks. His lungs are on fire, ripped from the gasps of frigid air he’d needed as he raced across campus and continues to pull with raged irregularity into his chest now. If he weren’t freezing, his brow would be dripping with sweat.

The announcers are speaking in quiet, concerned tones, as on the screen in slow motion, from every possible camera angle, Elio watches Oliver being hit again and again and again.

From one side a defender breaks around the outside edge of the line and comes at him low, his shoulder aligning with Oliver’s knee. Elio can almost imagine the snap of sinew, the crunch of cartilage and bone a hit like that would cause.

But that is nothing compared to the massive lineman who, as Oliver tries to evade the first hit, strikes from below, the crown of his helmet colliding with the underside of Oliver’s jaw. Oliver’s head snaps back with terrifying speed.

In the resulting crumble of bodies, Oliver’s creates angles that are completely unnatural before he lands on the field, limp. The ball spins away. There is not one bit of consciousness left in that instinctual part of his brain, the one naturally selected through the millennia for self-preservation, that can reach out and protect him.

Oliver is completely helpless as he falls.

In between the horrible images of the hit, the broadcast cuts to live images. Flying over an army of coaches and EMT’s in a circle around where Oliver lays on the field as an ambulance slowly rolls into view, cutting to horrified members of the marching band, fans wearing both colors with their hands over their mouths in shock, the opposing team forming prayer circles on the sidelines.

The feed jumps to a close up of a Northwestern player, his helmet off, tears mixing with his sweat. It takes Elio a moment to recognize him as the boy Oliver had walked with the morning after their first time together. It’s Des, his best friend, and the commentators gently consider how hard this must be for Des, having to watch this scene since he and Oliver have known each other teammates since middle school.

 _But what about me? What about what I’m feeling right now?_ Elio wants to scream at those two microphone-wielding dickheads on the screen.

He’s too terrified by what he’s watching to cry, though he can feel the choke of a sob, immeasurable, growing in his chest. At least Des is there, breathing the same air as Oliver. Elio is a million miles away from being able to do anything and he can’t fucking stand it.

The broadcast cuts to a commercial for some slick new car and Elio blinks for what feels like the first time since he arrived.

“It’s him isn't it? The guy who you’ve been....” Marzia asks, her hand coming to rest gently between his shoulder blades. Elio nods meekly.

Even though he’s pretty sure no one else in the room heard her question, he doesn’t really care at this point.  The secrecy of his love for Oliver doesn’t matter anymore. Just the existence of it.

“Oh, Elio.” Her voice is full of empathy. “Sweetheart, I’m...” She wraps her arms around Elio’s waist from behind, tucking her head against his neck when words fail. He absently lifts his hands, covering her thin arms with his fingers.

They keep watching as Oliver is loaded into the ambulance. For one fraction of a second he comes into their aerial view. There aren't any IV’s or oxygen masks, so that can only be a good thing, right? Just mountains of braces and straps attaching his prone body securely to the gurney .

Elio thinks of all the times he’s lain next to that body, so strong in comparison to his own. Every muscle primed for maximum power even when submitting to Elio. Oliver had felt indestructible, supple and keen, and always so beautiful.

Elio’s arms ache, as if missing the feel of Oliver’s solid heaviness in them and he pulls Marzia closer.

The ambulance lights turn on, twirling red and white. Everyone in the stadium rises to their feet, blessing Oliver’s journey with a chorus of hopeful cheers. Then in some freakish, almost masochistic fashion, after a few minutes to recollect, they begin playing the game again with some other boy stepping into Oliver’s position.

It feels so offensively wrong.

“Marzia, I need to borrow your car.” Elio is amazed by how level his own voice sounds.

She looks from the screen to Elio. It’s easy for her to follow his line of thought.

She gets her keys and coat pausing to ask Sam to lockup when he leaves. Their heads are tilted sweetly towards each other, Sam’s eyes falling closed as he kisses her on the brow. A staggering breath escapes Elio’s lungs at this affecting moment between his two best friends. What a self-pitying douche he’s been for not seeing what was happening right under his nose.

“I’ll drive you.” she says coming back to Elio as she pulls a knit hat with a hot pink faux-fur pompom over her hair. “And you’re going to tell me everything.”

It takes until they’ve nearly reach Lafeyette, Indiana (or about two hours if the clock on Marzia’s dash board is to be trusted) for Elio to finish telling the whole tale of him and Oliver. Rome. Plato. Hillel. The Symposium. The football game. The John Hancock Building. The Stadium. The entirety of their time together feels so much longer than the four plus months it has been. Elio realizes it must be the intensity of what they shared that gives their relationship such gravity and not its duration.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you,” Elio says. He’s managed to keep himself together, for the most part, his thoughts focused solely on getting to Oliver.

“I probably wouldn’t have believed you if you had.”

The snow is still falling. Not enough to make the road dangerous, but enough that Marzia keeps her windshield wipers on, dragging back and forth across the glass with a rubbery squeak.

“What are you going to do when you get there?” She asks.

Elio stares out the driver side window, his thumb caught between his teeth. 

“I don’t know,” he says. “But something big and important, I hope.”

The phone mounted to Marzia’s dashboard, with a Waz map illuminating their way, buzzes announcing a Google alert.

They can both read the final score as the pops up on the screen but it doesn’t feel official until Elio says it out loud, the first atom of hope flaring  to life in his heart.

“We won.”

*  
_I_ ** _n a tragic turn, Heisman Award winner, Northwestern quarterback Oliver Sugarman suffered a massive injury during the 3rd quarter of tonight’s Championship Game. He was taken off the field by ambulance as fans and fellow players watched on in stunned horror. Miracuously, or perhaps because of their star player and team captions unknown prognosis the Northwestern Wildcats held the lead he’d built and won the 2019 Championship. In the most somber on field championship celebration ever witnessed, all the players and staff, including their head coach, decided to leave the field before the trophy ceremony. Coach Tim Restin was quoted as saying as he left the stadium, “We’ll have time to celebrate later. Right now, our hearts and our thoughts are with Ollie.” Reports from the hospital are unclear just how traumatic an injury he sustained. For more information we go to Reece David and Kirk Herbstreet who were there in Indianapolis calling tonight’s game…_**  
**_ESPN, SportsCenter Opening, Scott Van Pelt, January 7, 2019_**

It’s well after midnight by the time he and Marzia arrive at the hospital. He’d scoured Twitter for any reports on where Oliver might be taken and this place had seemed like the best bet.

His guess had been right.

The place is swarming with news crews and hardcore NU fans waiting for an in person update. Meanwhile, hospital security is trying to keep ambulance lanes open and people under control.  Something about leaving the warmth of Marzia’s car to walk past all of them and into the waiting room all on his own feels overly daunting.

“I can wait for you to park, you know.”

“No, I’ll drop you. It’ll be faster this way. Who knows what the parking situation is going to be.” She cranks the wheel, turning her car under the well-lit awning in front of the Indiana University Medical Center emergency department. She puts the car in park but leaves the engine running.

“Just text me when you know where you’ll be and I’ll come find you.”

She says it like you’d ask a friend to call you after class so you can meet up for lunch or ask them to let you know when they get to a bar. Her calmness and focus has been a magical balm for Elio through this whole anxiety ridden night.

Without a thought for how long the drive might take or where she might sleep that night or the weather conditions or the classes she would miss in the morning, Marzia had jumped in her car with Elio. She hadn’t asked why, hadn’t questioned his motivations. She’d just done it. Because Elio had asked. Because Elio is her friend. For as long as Elio lives, he will never be able repay her the kindness and unabashed friendship she's shown him this evening.

Elio pauses, his hand on the door handle and turns back to look at Marzia. Really look.

She, much like Oliver, had started out just as a hook up. A cute girl at a party that he’d charmed so he could pass the time, get his dick wet and try to forget about the cute boy from his Plato class he’d met in Rome.  (Who he supposes, had been a cute boy to try to forget the handsome and dignified professor in Paris.) But, just like Oliver, she has come to be more, and mean more, to him than he deserves.

He seriously is the luckiest ass hole on the planet.

“Marzia." He states.  " _Ti amo.”_

To some, the Italian might give it the feel of a brush off, a way to gloss over the real words.  But for Marzia, who knows his native tongue, the one they spoke together the night they first met, she knows it only multiplies its meaning.

Her chin trembles as she presses her lips together tightly.

“I know,” She gasps, squeezing his hand. “Now, go tell Oliver that too.”

Even though Marzia is just going to park, he’s never felt quite so alone or so out of his depth as when he walks through the sliding glass doors of the Emergency Room waiting room.

He’s also never felt quite so scrawny, either.

The waiting room is modern and large, fitting is a hospital this size. But it’s overrun by Oliver’s teammates and coaches, many of whom are wearing matching 2019 National Championship ball caps. Their broad, athletic bodies (or others that are just down-right freaking bulky and huge) take up more space than they should, gathered in groups, sprawled in the banks of chairs their legs extended long and wide. Elio fears he might just evaporate into nothingness if he attempts to walk among them.

In the corner, away from the hulking young men, is a couple, nicely dressed, sitting with the Head Coach. Elio swallows. He knows instantly that those are Oliver’s parents.

It’s almost crazy just how much Oliver looks like his mother with her elegant cheekbones, dirty blond hair and long neck. But even from this distance it's easy to see his father's blue eyes are clearly an identical match to Oliver’s. The pair of them look terrified, his mother crying.

_Eleanor and Freddie._

The names come to him out of a murky memory from one of those nights that had lasted until morning. A night not so long ago where in between those heart stopping moments of passion, there had been awed silences.  Sharing close, quiet stretches of time that they filled with unflinching eye-contact.  Looks that were both inspired and a bit afraid of just how deep this was all beginning to run. It had been one of those nights where they told each other old stories about their lives before they’d met, ensuring no part of the other was left unknown anymore.

Elio wants more nights like those with Oliver.

He’s made the grand gesture, now. Driven nearly 3 hours so he can be here when Oliver wakes up. But what next?

Should he go over to Oliver’s parents and introduce himself to them as Oliver’s study partner just like they had joked about on Thanksgiving morning?  Should he just ask a random player and hope they don’t body slam to the ground him cause what is up with the desperate, skinny kid?  Try to snag a nurse even though they look frazzled and stressed because even though everyone seem here seems to be here for Oliver they still have other patients to treat too?

“Holy shit. It’s you.”

The mystified voice comes from behind his shoulder and Elio turns. It’s Des and he’s staring at him. The cup of coffee in his hand is frozen halfway to his mouth.

He lowers the cup and points. “You’re him. You’re Elio.”

“Yeah, I’m...you’re Des right?” Elio offers his hand, going on autopilot into formal introductions. Des's eyes are the deep brown that would normally be inviting but now look worn down, uneasy. Elio stuffs his hands back into his pockets. “Oliver told you about me?”

“Yeah, man. He told me everything.” There is a snarky edge to his answer.

Des can’t mean...

“Everything?”

“Yeah, man,” Des repeats again, this time with knowing emphasis. “ _Everything_.”

Elio can’t believe it.

Oliver came out to his best friend. He’s as immeasurably proud as he is stunned.

  
“When?” He asks, rendered breathless.

“The day after you...” Des stops, reigns his answer in, backing down from his the protective best friend routine he was about to launch into. Instead, he leans in slightly closer. They are both painfully aware of the delicateness of the subject matter, speaking broken sentences and with looks so as to not clue anyone else in. “He told me the day we got into the playoffs?”

He phrases it as a question in hopes that Elio can glean the full understanding of the timing. Oliver had gone to his best friend the very next day, presumably broken up about it what Elio had done, and told Des not only about his sexualtiy but about their relationship as well.  Elio can only hope Oliver told Des the full breadth of the story, much like he has just told Marzia, explaining that is hadn’t just been sex but something far more important and that Elio’s being here only goes to prove that.

“Where you at the game?”

“No,” Elio replies. “I uh, I drove here. Well, my friend drove here. She’s parking her car now.”

“You drove here?” Des asks. “From Evanston? Just now?

  
Elio nods. “Yeah, when I saw what happened I just...”

Elio looks aimlessly around the waiting room. It’s filled with people who have known Oliver ages longer than he has. People who didn’t walk away from him when he’d offered them his very soul.

He sighs heavily. “Look, I didn’t think this whole thing through terribly well.”

Elio is suddenly aware of just how emotionally exhausted he is and as if sensing Elio’s iminent emotional collapse, Des guides him guides him over to a chair then joins him.

“What have they told you?” Elio asks.

“Barely fucking anything,” Des says. He takes single sip of his coffee then looks at it as if it’s just offended him. “They’ve been coming in and telling Ollie’s folks and Coach stuff mostly. All we really now is he woke up in the ambulance. Which is good, but he’d been out for at least 25 minutes...”

“Which, I assume... isn’t?”

Des shakes his head. “It means it could go either way. Evidently, he was really disoriented. Didn’t know where where he was or what had happened but not like out of it.  I mean, he knew who he was. They had to sedate him, though.”

“What? Why?”

“Glorified sleeping pills, they said. Mostly it’s just to keep him calm and still while they do the scans.”

“Has anyone been in to see him?”

Des shakes his head somberly.

He and Des couldn’t be more different, yet here they are joined together at the middle: their love for Oliver. Elio is exceptionally grateful that in the sea of unfamiliar humanity there is one person who know Oliver’s full story and knows how Elio might fit in.

He texts Marzia but she’s already on her way to the ER from the parking garage. She comes in the sliding doors only a few minutes later and Elio calls her over with a wave.

“Hi,” Des says, offering her his hand. “I’m Des.”

“I know who you are,” She says with a star-struck smile.

Just then a doctor comes out from a set of swinging doors that separate the waiting room from the triage and treatment center. She goes over to the corner where the Sugarman’s and Coach are and sits opposite them.

The room goes silent, but even so Elio can hear nothing. He sits forward in his seat and Marzia links her arm in his. He tries to catch anything more than the stoic nods of the coach and the pained looks Oliver parents share. In the end, they are ushered into the rear area, Oliver’s father’s hand around his mother’s waist as she leans into him for support.

“Coach?” Des calls across the room, standing to catch his attention. He makes a desperate gesture, pleading.

“It’s his ACL.” There’s a general muted reaction to this news for Oliver’s teammates, tsks and groans and a hissed curse from Des. “His patella is fractured too but we were pretty much expecting that. They’re still waiting to get MRI results back to know the rest. Keep sending him love and strength, boys, however you find most meaningful.”

There are a few muttered, _Thanks, Coach_ ’s before he follows where Oliver’s parents had gone.

Elio turns to Des to gauge how he should take this news.

His head is set back against the wall, his eyes moving back and forth in their sockets as if doing calculations in his head. “ACL that’s 4 months,” he starts almost as if Elio isn’t there. “6 if your surgeon has a bad day or if your PT such, which it won’t for Ollie. The kneecap thing though, that might be another...6 weeks on top of all that. Depends on where the fracture is, I suppose.”

“How are you so calm about this?”  

Des turns his head to Elio’s side with a shrug. “We’ve all been here before, dealing with injuries, waiting on news about whether we’re ever going to play again. I mean, most of the time it’s not this serious but this is the risk you take every time you step on the field.” He points towards the double doors. “That could just as easily been me in there tonight. Could have been any of us. Tonight it was Oliver.”

“This fucking game,” Elio whispers. It’s a similar reaction to when he’d watched live. Being able to appreciate the art and excellence of the play, while still not accepting he brutality. He pushes both his his hands through his hair, dragging his nails against his scalp, pulling hard roots before dropping his hands once again into lap with an explosive exhale. “Why couldn’t Oliver play...I don’t know, fucking ping pong or something.”

Des snorts once. Then Marzia. And before Elio knows it, Des is shaking with laughter. “Can you imagine?” he asks around a giggle. ”Him? With that little paddle?”

That’s when Elio loses it, too. It feels unnatural and very out of place to be laughing this hard when Oliver’s prognosis remains uncertain. Elio can tell they are getting plenty of looks. But it feels so incredibly needed, too, that he lets himself go, grabbing onto Des for stability.  
  
“Shit,” Des sighs, as he wipes at the tears in the creases of his eyes. Calmed but still smiling, he says, “I’ll get you guys some coffee. It’s going to be a long night.”

Des slaps Elio’s back as rises with enough force to nearly launch Elio out of his seat. Des grins down at him as if he’d done it on purpose, like some sort of initiation has just been passed. But then he stops and sobers his expression.

  
“Look, I know we don’t know shit right now about how he’s going to be and I don’t want to speak for him or anything but I think your drive’ll be worth it. I think 24’s gonna be happy you’re here.”

Elio nods, grateful for Des’s vote of confidence. “Wait,” he asks, suddenly confused. “24?”

“That’s his jersey number,” Marzia explains. She may as well added a “duh” to the end for how obvious she makes it sound.

Des flashes Marzia a radiant smile. “I like her.”

Elio blushes almost as deeply as she does, covering his face with a hand.

“Yeah, ok, ok, I knew that.”

“Sure, you did, kid,” Des says as he starts to walk away. There’s an ease back into his voice. His spine looks straighter.

“Congratulations, by the way,” Elio says.  He nods up towards the hat that sits cockeyed on top of Des’s hair. Des reaches up  and adjusts it as if still getting used to the fit and meaning of it.

“Thanks.” His eyes become glossy. “We won that one for Oliver.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've seen several comments saying Elio was too hard in the breakup scene. So in his defense I offer this:  
> 1) Oliver was not making it easy for him. He kept rebuffing everything Elio would say, so he had to go harder/deeper/meaner to get his point across.  
> 2) This is the same boy who made up details about an affair that never actually happened and lied about it. He told Oliver "Just because you know what my cum tastes like doesn't mean we have to be friends." (I'm probably misquoting myself here) but like...he's got an "exterior" he's let himself be soft with Oliver but he's not all sunshine and rainbows all the time.
> 
> I personally love the prickly bits of Elio, too so...
> 
> Also, I did do a mediocre amount of research about football related injuries. More on this next chapter! 
> 
> Lastly, I know not much happens in this chapter (and I kind of hate it...), but it's all set up for the grand finale! (At least two more chapters, possibly 3 and an epilogue.) 
> 
> xx LATER


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a long night at the hospital, but morning always comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As @natures_cunning_ways reminded me with her awesome imaginary schedule over on Tumblr, today is the day E/O slept together for the first time. So seems only fitting to post.
> 
> Feels woefully mediocre for all you beautiful people but I hope this chapter helps.

_**Every time you take the field you try to play your hardest. That’s what I was doing tonight. And so was @sugarmansugarrush. My thoughts and prayers are with him tonight and through his recovery. I and the rest of the @footballUGA team congratulate the @NUFBfamily on their well deserved win.** _  
_**Tweet Jan 8, 2019, 2:13am, @kesslerFB2020, UGA Defensive lineman.** _

The information comes in slowly throughout the night.

The knee injury, which will require surgery but is a standard procedure, is the least of the doctor’s worries now.

His brain scan comes back clean, which means there is no bleeding, but his intracranial pressure is increased which indicates swelling. It’s a concussion, they say and that word doesn’t seem so scary to Elio.

But it’s a bad one, they clarify, so the dread settles back in.

Elio, with eyes bleary but too over-caffeinated to sleep, feels like he’s suspended in some time lock. Days could have passed outside and he’d have no concept of it, sitting in this brightly lit waiting room. He alternates between pacing listlessly through the darkened hallways near the cafeteria and watching the same miserable stories in CNN over and over again from a different chair. More than once, he catches himself staring blankly at Des as they face each other in opposing seats until one or the other shakes themselves from their zoned-out states with a heavy sigh or an offer for something more from the vending machines.

Marzia falls sleep with her phone in her hands, her legs and arms an aching twist against the uncomfortable plastic and Elio tucks his coat under her head the best he can.

Sometime well past 4am, Coach comes out and tells the teammates who have stayed (which are most of them) that Oliver has been moved to the main ward for observation. His sedatives are being tapered off and they really won’t really know much more about the severity of his concussion until he wakes up.

“Time to get some sleep, boys,” he says. His voice, though Elio doesn’t really know its base line, sounds nearly ripped to shreds with exhaustion. He looks down at his scuffling toes, trying to stop himself from getting choked up. “I’m proud of the men you’ve shown yourself to be tonight. On the field, but more so right here.” He points to the floor as his voice cracks. “We truly are the Northwestern Football family and I love you all.”

His flagging but poignant speech takes Elio by surprise. Aren’t coaches supposed to be all screaming, red-faced ass-kickers? This Coach seems almost tender-hearted which explains why Oliver always speaks of him with such affection and respect.

The players wearily load themselves in the team buses that show up a few minutes later but Des doesn’t move a muscle, his hands clenched on the armrests as if glued there. He’s not leaving until he’s seen Oliver. And neither is Elio.

What feels like hours of empty, meaningless time pass. The waiting room is quiet now, pre-dawn, without the ever present conversation of the rest of the team.  

Marzia stirs and it’s early, or late, enough that some chain restaurants out in the real world should be opening shortly. She offers to go out and get them actual food and actual coffee. Elio hates the thought of asking her to do even on more thing for his benefit, but then he realizes maybe she’s just starting to go stir crazy sitting vigil with him for a man she’s never even met, so he gives her a twenty and long, thankful hug and watches her walk out the door into the softening morning light.

Des jumps up to talk to Oliver’s parents when walk through the waiting room, leaning into each other even more than they had before. Elio watches from a distance, reminded that he has no clearance to actually join in the conversation, as Des plays the best-friend-since middle school card for the latest up date.

Oliver’s mother looks over Des’s shoulder towards him once while they talk. Her dignified face that reminds him so much of Oliver seems troubled but curious at the sight of him. He averts his eyes, squeezing his palms between his knees. It’s probably just the sleepless paranoia that is setting in over all of them that had made him think there was a touch of understanding in her expression at well.

“Come on,” Des says, his eyes a wild flare of determination after they’ve left.

“What?” Elio’s voice cracks. “What’s going on?”

“They told me his room number.”

He needn't say anything more.

They wind their way through the hospital’s long, linoleum floored hallways, in and out of elevators, past hospital staff that pay them no mind. Even so, it feels like they’re doing something nefarious, like they are two small boys out on some pretend secret mission through the neighborhood but only until the street lights come on and they have to go home for dinner.

Surely the only way to Oliver’s side is through some poorly conceived chicanery.

But when they arrive on the ward, Des walks straight up to the nurses station, turning on that megawatt smile and tipping his National Championship cap like it’s some damn badge to the nurse behind the desk. Elio can’t help but throw a heated stage-whispered “Des, the fuck are you doing?”  at his back as he walks away, sure he’s about to get them thrown out.

But whatever Des says works and he pulls Elio down the hall by the cuff of the coat he has draped over his arms and into a darkened patient room in full view of all completely unmolested.

There is no time between when Elio realizes he should probably mentally prepare himself for the sight of Oliver in a hospital bed before he’s seeing him lying there in one.

His left leg is wrapped in a massive brace that runs nearly from his hip to his ankle and is propped up high by a mountain of pillows. There is another brace around his neck that seems to tilt his head back again the raised bed at an awkward angle. There is an IV attached to his right hand, a nose cannula resting on his cheeks and over his ears. He’s pale and motionless aside from the gentle rise and fall of his chest and Elio’s eyes sting at the sight of him.

He’s missed him so much.

It is instinctive. To reach for Oliver’s hand, finding it dry and warm where it’s nestled in the array of starchy white sheets. To bend down and press his lips to the soft patch of skin at his temple. To whisper “Tesoro, mi cosi dispiace tanto,” against the flop of hair that’s still matted with the musky-sweet smell of sweat from his helmet.

He doesn’t think for a moment how Des might react to seeing his previously assumed 100% heterosexual best friend being fretted over by his 100% male former lover.

“Sorry,” Elio pulls his hands back, extracting himself from Oliver completely as Des steps to the opposite side of the bed and into Elio’s slightline.

“Don’t. It’s...fine.” He finds the word as he says it, speaks it with conviction. Elio sees that Des has made contact with Oliver too, his fingers wrapped around the inside of his calf. It’s purely Platonic but carries a sweetness that Elio cannot deny.

“Always gotta make it dramatic, don’t you, cap?” Des says, with a rueful smile at Oliver.

There is only one chair in the room, pulled close to Elio’s side of the bed. He wonders if it was his mother, father or Coach who last sat in it, clasping his hand, watching his face intently for any signs of wakefulness, whispering words of inspiration just as he had.

Des gestures for Elio to take it..

“You can stay, too,” Elio says but Des just shakes his head.

“No, you should be the one to wait with him. Redheaded nurse said they're just letting him rest so they won't be in unless something changes before the day shift shows up at eight. You should have a couple hours.”

 _Use them wisely_ , his voice seems to say.

“Will you let Marzia know where I am?”

“Sure. I’ll keep an eye on her.”

“She's got a boyfriend. Just, ya know, FYI,” Elio says at the last minute as he realizes that neither Sam nor Marzia stand a chance if Des is allowed to turn on the charm. “It’s new for them but…”

Des wipes at the guilty-as-charged smirk on his lips with the pad of his forefinger. His eyes, narrowed into wry slits, lock on Elio.

“Noted.”

Just before Des reaches for the door handle, he stops and turns back to the bed once more.  Looking down, he lifts the Championship hat off his head and places it next to Oliver on his pillow.

With a single nod, punctuation to his own internal discussion, Des leaves without another word and Elio is finally alone with Oliver for the first time in weeks.

His room is high above this unfamiliar city, the sun breaking along avenues and boulevards and spaces between buildings that Elio doesn’t know.   Hasn't studied night after night, day after day.  He has a sudden wish for Chicago and home.

But the sound of Oliver’s sleeping breath is beautifully familiar, as is the shape of him at rest. Even broken and damaged, the simple act of being in Oliver’s orbit is enough to bring Elio peace and a large part of him wants to just crawl into the small space beside him in that bed and just feel him close.

Instead, he sinks to the chair, its tall back and thick cushions a welcome change to the waiting room chairs. There is even an extra blanket draped over one of the arm rests and Elio pulls it round his shoulders.

All the frenetic static the has been buzzing in Elio's ears since his father first called him (how is that only earlier this same night?) fades to silence. The background pain that he’s carried with him since he turned his back and walked away that night on the field lifts from his muscles.

He has no idea how Oliver will react when he wakes up and sees Elio here but right now, in this moment, Elio is exactly where he needs to be. Where he hopes he’s allowed to stay.

He cradles his head on the edge of the mattress near Oliver's hip, rests his fingers over Oliver’s pulse point at his wrist just for security, and finally lets himself rest.

*

He hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep, when the feeling of fingers in his hair wakes him. A thick, almost clumsy caress at the crown of his head.

Then comes the slow, carefully mouthed syllables of his name.

“Elio?”

His head flies off the bed with a full inhalation through his nose.

Oliver is awake.

Elio can't have slept long because no one has disturbed him but it had been enough for him to feel completely revitalized now, especially when he stands to see Oliver's bright blue eyes blinking back at him.

They are bright, yes, and wide and they swim in their sockets, unable to focus on anything for long. Each blink is slow, seeming to require great effort. In those moments where Oliver can both keep his eyes open and line them up on Elio’s face, Elio sees a mix of confusion and distress as he looks back.

“Hey,” he says, softly. “How are you feeling?”

Oliver pulls at the collar velcroed around his neck, trying to understand its being there.

“No, no, no. Don’t do that. Leave it.” Elio gently bats his hands away, their fingers brushing as he does. This soft contact only makes the bewilderment in Oliver’s eyes grow more distinct.

“”m I hallucinating?” Oliver asks. His breath has become rapid. Surely they must be monitoring this out at the nurses station. And yet, no one comes to disturb them.

“No,” Elio says with a fleeting smile. He remember Des saying Oliver had been terribly confused when he woke up in the ambulance. “Do you know where you are?”

His eyes close and he swallows audibly as he thinks. Then with droll intonation, “I’m not in Kansas…”

Elio's next smile holds longer.

“No, definitely not in Kansas, Dorothy. You’re in India…

“...anpolis,” they finish together.  "Yeah," Oliver continues, “For the game.” His brow furrows. “Who won?”

Elio picks up the hat Des had left behind and holds it up over Oliver’s face se it comes into his line of sight. The corners of his lips pull up slightly and he lifts both hands to grab onto it. There is such simple, childlike joy on his face as he examines it, his thumb trembling over the stitching that says _Northwestern University NCAA Champions 2019._

But then his hands drop quickly back to his chest, the hat falling from his fingers, and Elio makes a quick grab it before it tumbles to the ground. The weight of the it must have been too much for his arms to bare up any longer.

Oliver doesn’t seem too bothered by this show of clumsiness though as he says, “Sons of bitches won without me.”

The statement is playful, like he’s almost trying to make a joke and Elio wonders if concussed, hopped up on sedatives and pain meds Oliver is similar to drunk Oliver. Maybe one day he’ll have the chance to find out.

“I think they won because of you. Congratulations.”

His eyes close again, a guileless smile on his lips.

“Do you remember what happened?” Elio asks.

Oliver nods the best he can in the brace, his chin colliding with the firm foam. “3rd quarter, it was 2nd down. I was trying to go long for Des but the offensive line broke. Their left tackle...the guy with the long, Thor hair, um, Kessler he got to me. My knee...”

Oliver adjusts on the bed, trying to catch a glimpse of his lower half. He doesn’t get far and Elio presses his shoulder back to the mattress, encouraging him to be still.

“It’s your ACL.” He breaks the news as gentle as he can. He’s not even entirely sure what that injury means, but it’s clearly terrible news for Oliver to face. The lower lid of his eyes fill with tears. 

“ACL,” he repeats grimly.

“I’m so sorry, Oliver.” he adds.

“Ok. But why can’t I…?” He taps his forehead.

“There was a second hit as you fell from the first. He knocked you out. You have a level 5 concussion, or at least that’s what your coach said after your doctor told him.”

Oliver’s exhale quivers as he closes eyes again, turning inward so he can absorb this information in the privacy of his own head. It’s like he knows what this all means, just like Des had. Like he can look down the long, arduous and painful tunnel of recovery without anyone having to tell him. Elio can only imagine how hopelessly lost he must be feeling. His entire life plan thrown horribly off course.

A tear slip out and Elio watches its quick path downwards over the pinched creases at the corner of his eye and into his ear. Elio quite literally has to hold his hands back, his fingers twisting anxiously behind his back to keep reaching out to comfort him. It doesn’t feel his place to do so, at least not yet.

And even though it’s heartbreaking to standby and do nothing, Elio also cannot help but take some encouragement from Oliver’s current state too. These detailed memories of the game, the way every inch of body moves without paralysis, things could have been so much worse.

“You weren’t there though,” Oliver says after another thoughtful pause. “...at the game. Were you?”

Elio shakes his head. “No, I saw what happened on TV and came here. I just wanted to be with you when you woke up.”

"From campus?"  Elio nods.  There is still so much confusion pressed into Oliver’s features. He shifts his head, angling towards Elio’s side of the bed.

“Why?” He asks and Elio knows this is his moment.

The clench in his chest feels like a plea for atonement.

“Because of course I love you, too.”

It’s like it’s taken him a month to finish that conversation on the field, saying what he should have said then if only he’d possessed the same amount of bravery and conviction Oliver had.  
He can almost feel the way the wind had whipped around them, the same frigid bite of tears in his eyes.

The vile words he’s used and the heart-sickness it had left him with return and with those memories comes a rushing desperation to reel those false statements back in, erase them from their joint memories. Or, if he can’t, at least offer other words that can act as a balm, words that caress as much as the others had punched.

“And I don’t know if this will make a lick of difference or if you’ll even remember I said it, but you matter to me more than anyone ever has before and what I did…Shit…” He huffs, hands going to his hips.  
  
“Look, we both know this is not the first time I’ve fucked up. I’ve got a record of letting things go too far and saying things I later regret.” Oliver listens, motionless against the mattress. His silence feels like an open ended invitation to speak.

“And I also have a history of running away when things get ugly. I check out, cut myself off from the situation. I leave the whole damn continent instead of fighting. Even if fighting would have been the right thing to do, even if I’d been justified.  I warned you, I'm not a good person."

"Elio..." he starts to contest with a ragged groan but Elio cuts him off.

"Just let me finish."  The words are rolling now. "Someone once reminded me that love is a kind of warfare.”

Oliver snorts and mutters, “You and Ovid and weird timing.”

“Yeah, well that reference wasn’t exactly my fault, was it?”

Oliver’s eyes roll.

“But maybe Ovid was right all those centuries ago.” Elio’s voice goes soft. “But maybe what Ovid meant was that if love is meant to be, that you should fight _for_ someone, but with them.”

Elio settles slowly onto the side of the mattress.  He props his hands so his body is over Oliver's, careful not to touch, but almost hovering above him so neither of them can look anywhere else but at each other.  It's a view he's had countless times, from the first night in Rome to their last morning together before it all went pear shaped.  

“What you were offering do for me that night, Oliver...It was huge, massive, and I just, I couldn’t fathom it.  All I could see were all the bad things that could come from it. And why?  Just because you met me by some fluke of the universe? It was too big and too fucking risky. It still is.” Elio head falls to his chest with an overwhelmed shake. “But if you want to come out then I think that's the most beautiful thing I've heard.  And if you want to engage in the social battle you know it will be then, if you’ll let me, I’ll fight this with you. As far as it goes."  
  
Oliver’s eyes are closed by the time he's finished and for a minute he thinks Oliver has passed out or fallen back asleep again and his whole speech will have been for nothing. But then his eyes reopen, locking on Elio’s and he is aware of just how much effort and concentration it takes for him to do so.

The back of Oliver’s hand brushes against the denim over his thigh, before his hand, palm face up, lands on in his lap. It is an offer that Elio does not hesitate to take.

“Elio, do you…”

“Good morning, Mr. Sugarman.”

A whole team of doctors and nurses appear in Oliver’s room, yanking back the privacy curtain with quick a metallic pull. That sound had given Elio just enough warning to drop Oliver’s hand and jump away from the bed.

No one seems to care that Elio is there at all as he steps out of the nurses way so she can check his IV.

“How are you feeling this morning?”  The doctor asks. 

Oliver’s eyes follow Elio across the room, his gaze holding strong.

“Best I’ve felt in weeks,” he says and Elio feels himself flush from head to foot.

The doctors and nurses all titter, assuming he’s being sarcastic and charming. But Elio knows.

He _knows_ and he soars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a doctor. Nor am I a coach. But there are 5 levels of concussion. Oliver has the worst - it includes loss of consciousness up to 30 minutes, potential bleeding on the brain/swelling and amnesia for more than 24 hours. He doesn't have the amnesia and he won't have any changes to the structure of his brain. He's looking at being benched for 6 months due to the concussion. More on this before we're through - don't worry!
> 
> Oliver's "Elio, do you..." is exactly what Elio said ("Oliver, do you...") when they were interrupted at Hillel. 
> 
> And they aren't done talking yet... don't worry.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver get the chance to clear the air. Undisturbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the shorter side...but worth it.

  
_**With news about the full extent of Oliver Sugarman’s injuries from Monday night’s College Football Championship game coming in slowly, we’ve brought in former Chief of Sports Medicine at Massachusetts General Hospital to talk what kind of recovery, and what it means his 2019 Draft Status, this Heisman winner might be looking at. Dr. Berkman, welcome to the show.** _  
_**Big10 Football & Beyond, January 8, 2019** _

“Have you slept?”

“Not really.”

“Elio.”

He gives his father’s face on the phone screen a sheepish look. He rubs at the back of his neck as he does, exposing a pungent scent he realizes his his own body. All his clothes are stretched out and over-worn by this point. His skin feels hot and dehydrated. His hair is a wild mess of oily curls. What he wouldn’t give for just 5 minutes in a hot a shower.

“I know, I know. It’s just...”

The elevator doors to the general medicine floor chime and Elio bobs out of the way with a sidestep. This is a dance he’s been doing all afternoon and he has perfected the choreography.

If his wait last night in the ER had felt like a vigil, today has been a stake out.

From the bench by the elevator, the only place to sit with a clear sight line to room 1382, Elio has hovered about and around all afternoon just waiting for one last chance to speak with Oliver. He’s watched various doctors come and go, some in white coats, some in scrubs, others just in fancy slacks with their tie tucked into the front of their shirt and their sleeves rolled up. He’d watched as Oliver’s parents arrived first thing in the morning and stayed in his room all day, which was a good thing. Elio would be judging them pretty hard if they hadn’t. Coach and Des and few other teammates had said their goodbyes before heading back to campus just before lunch. (Des turning his head over his shoulder to give Elio a covert nod before he left.)

Later, Oliver had been rolled out by a porter and taken down the opposite end of the hall, presumably for more scans. When he’d come back his neck brace had been gone, the head of his adjustable bed propped up high.

It was like a veil had been lifted from his eyes, though that could be easily explained away by something as banal as his sedatives having worn off. Even so it had made Elio’s chest expand. Oliver had looked like his Oliver again.

Just before he’d been pushed into his room once more, Oliver had noticed Elio waiting and his eyes had become desperately intent. _Don’t leave just yet_ , he’d seemed to beg so Elio hadn’t.

“I just need to speak with him again before I come home and then I promise, I’ll sleep for a week.” Then with an impertinent grin he knows his dad will find charming he adds, “And miss all my classes.”

“Ha, ha,” his dad states drolly. “You’ve spoken to him, then. Was it a good chat? Was he alert?”

“Mostly. I think. I mean, part of why I want to stay is to make sure he remembers it happening at all,” He admits. He bites at his lip and wonders if the heat in his cheeks comes through on Facetime. “But yeah. It was good. Really good.”

His eyes flit over towards his room. The door is half open. At last check, the neurologist and his assistant (Thanks, Indiana University Hospital Online Staff Directory) had gone into his room about twenty minutes ago. Elio doesn’t know if that means good news or bad.

“Look, dad, Marzia left this morning so I don’t exactly have a way to get back. I mean, I guess I could just hop on a bus or take an Uber...”

He’s such a spoiled, only-child, knows-exactly-what-voice-he-needs-to-use-to-get-what-he-wants little shit and he knows it.

“Elio, you can’t Uber back to Chicago.” His father sighs. “You have your ID?”

Elio nods. Check mate.

“I’ll book you a flight.”

The two doctors come out of his room along with Oliver’s parents. His mother is smiling as she wraps a long teal colored scar around her neck, her coat in her hands. His father shakes the doctors hands as they walk down the corridor together. The looks on their faces could not be more different than when Elio had first saw them in the ER.

It must be good news then.

“Hey thanks, dad, seriously. I mean it. But can you make the flight for tomorrow?”

His dad rubs at his eyes, his fingers slipping up behind his glasses. Elio has seen this harried expression of patience being tested since he was a young child. But he knows in his heart of hearts, it’s all just bluster. His father takes the time to straighten his glasses back on his nose, and clears his throat. When he looks back into the camera, he’s grinning. “I’ll book you a hotel room then too, shall I?”

*

Elio knocks, not sure why exactly. It’s not like he’s going to wait for Oliver to come to the door and answer, but he does anyway.

The lights are dimmed again, the shades drawn, giving the room the feeling of an unnaturally early twilight. It’s barely past what might be time for a respectably late lunch.

Oliver’s face is angled towards the wall mounted television but he turns towards Elio when he enters. The movement looks awkward, like the muscles of his neck are fighting the motion, too tight and cramped.

Any wince of pain he tries to mask genuinely melts away when he see Elio though. His whole demeanour softens, breaking into a smile of such quiet joy Elio can hardly breathe for a minute. It’s felt like a lifetime since Oliver has looked at him like that. Radiating something shy and cautious but boundless, too.

“You stayed,” he says, a bit breathy.

“Are you glad I did?” Elio clasps his elbows. Oliver nods, a ghost of that previous look still lingering about his eyes. “Are your parents going to be gone long?”

“They went back to their hotel. I’m supposed to be resting.”

Elio gives him an unapologetic look as he meanders through the room as one might if they were checking out an apartment to rent. The TV is tuned to a sports news channel and Elio points up at it.

“Watching about yourself, huh? Typical, you egomaniac.”

Oliver snorts softly. “They’ve been speculating all day how long I’ll be out of commission for. Bit weird considering I didn’t even know myself for most of the day.”

“And?” Elio asks. “Good news?”

“Hard to believe this will be fighting fit in 6 months.” He gestures down towards his leg. “But that’s what the surgeon says. And assuming all future head scans stay clear… Well, my doctor's not thrilled. She’d prefer I take up knitting for the rest of my life but, I should be cleared to play again this summer.”

It’s the best news possible in a horrible situation and Elio can feel the tension between them. That instinctual urge that had brought him to Oliver’s bedside in the first place fighting with the awkward _Are we or aren’t we? Can you possibly forgive me? Have I done enough to prove myself worthy? Said enough? Is that even possible after what I’ve done?_

“Elio,” Oliver says as if reading the conflict on his face. “Come here.”

Another proffered hand. Elio sits on the side of the bed, drawing Oliver’s palm in between both of his.

“No,” Oliver states. “All the way.”

Elio looks at him, making sure he’s fully understood what he’s asking. Oliver tugs at his hand pulling him down next to him.

And Elio quickly learns, that sometimes forgiveness comes not as words, but as an embrace. A return to a pair of arms that have shown you more tenderness than all of humanity put together before you’d know him. A sigh that matches your own and says nothing short of _This is where I’m meant to be_. A pair of lips pressed to yours again that have worshiped you and praised you and challenged you and known you in all the ways you want to be known.

Even as Elio yields to Oliver’s closeness, melting into that familiar heat, he is acutely aware of Oliver’s injuries.

“You’re sure this is ok?” Elio checks, breaking away from the kiss for the space of a breath. There is hardly room for him on the bed between the brace around Oliver’s leg and the wedge propping it up. Elio would have to hate to nudge something out of place in his own voracity to taste Oliver more.

“Yes, I’m sure.” Oliver’s hand massive against Elio’s jaw drags him into another kiss as if trying to possess him.

There is so much heat and memory in these kisses. Affirmation and mercy. But there is also only so far these exchanges of lips and tongue can and should go and they both seem to find that limit simultaneously.

“God, I missed your mouth,” Oliver says as he presses his forehead to Elio’s. His breath is quick, high in his throat.

“Even when it gets me in trouble?” Elio asks.

Oliver’s ample bicep acts as the perfect pillow for Elio’s head and he settles into it, one hand curled under his chin, the other resting delicately on the flat of Oliver’s stomach.

Now that all is smoothed over, there is still so much that Elio wants to say. “Everything I said that night, I didn’t mean it,” being a prime example.

“I know,” Oliver says with ineffable poise. “I know you were just trying to protect me. Doesn’t mean it still didn’t hurt like a bitch though.”

It hurt him to say it too, but that surely must be evident by now.

“I’m so sorry Oliver.” Elio looks at him, eyes and words sincere.

“Apology accepted.” He nudges the side of Eli’s nose with his. “Besides, I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that.”

Elio pulls back sharply, the calm hand on Oliver’s stomach turning into pointed finger at the base of his sternum. “If you try and make any of this remotely your fault I’m going to punch you. And you definitely don’t need anymore injuries right now.”

“It’s true though,” Oliver says, even as he laughs softly and captures Elio’s hand in his. He plays with the grip, fingers sliding in and out of alignment, pressing his thumb across Elio’s palm before linking their fingers and tucking them to his chest. His fingers are warm between Elio’s and his heartbeat is steady.

“I was so caught up in making this grand moment out of it that I didn’t stop to think about how it would affect you. You’ll be dragged into this whole spectacle, too. I should have just talked about it. It should have been something we decided on together.”

“Coming out is your decision, Oliver. This is your life.”

“Yeah, but you’re a part my life aren’t you?”

If Elio hadn’t known before, he certainly does now.  They share a soft, lingering kiss before snuggling back into each other and their happy silence, the TV just an indistinct backdrop to their moment.

“You told Des, though,” Elio says. “That’s a huge first step.”

Oliver hums. He rakes his fingers backward through Elio’s hair, eyes tender on his brow as if saying hello again to each curl. Elio could die happy here.

“So was telling my parents and Coach the night after the Heisman.”

“What?” Elio lifts up on his shoulder, quietly bewildered.

“Told my agent, too. You know, full disclosure and all. I think he’s excited, actually. Ready to work the gay angle. Though he might have to wait a year before he gets to do that now.”

He looks woefully down at his knee and Elio follows the glance, too stunned to do anything else.

“I told Chiara when I was home over break. She was shocked, but sweet about it actually. The other seniors and captains on the team were amazing when I told them right before we left for Pasadena but then again they’re my best friends so...The plan was to tell the rest of the team after the Championship game but that obviously hasn’t happened yet.”

Elio looks down at him and the unperturbed look on Oliver’s face. Oliver has said all these words as if it’s nothing but for Elio, it’s as if someone has just told him 2 plus 2 doesn’t equal 4 anymore.

“Is that why your mom has been looking at me funny all day?”

Oliver’s nose crinkles. He might as well be giggling at Elio like a little girl. “She wants to meet you.”

Elio falls back to the bed with a gigantic scoff, giving the ceiling a long stare as if hoping to try and find some sense there. He can feel the way Oliver is grinning over at him in his disbelief.  "What?"  He positively bursts.

“I told her that if she spoke with you before I had a chance to again that I was never coming home for Hanukkah ever again.”

Elio imagines all these delicate conversations Oliver has been having over the past month, bravely speaking his truth after all these years to those closest to him. Some day he wants to hear the details of every single one, but right now he’s nearly giddy.

“You did it.” Elio says, full of wonder. “Even after what I did you went ahead and did it any way.  Why?”

  
The sting of remembered pain coalesces into a furrow on Oliver’s brow. His lips twitch, suppressing a pout. “I’d already lost you, Elio.” His use of the past perfect tense is a blessed thing. “The least I could do was hold onto some of that self confidence I’d found to finally live my life openly that I’d had when I was with you.” Oliver gives him a bashful grin. “Well, that and the picture.”

With a quick scramble and a lift of his hips (delicately, of course, so as to not jostle Oliver), Elio fishes his phone from his back pocket. With a click and swipe of his password, he opens his photo gallery.

“You mean this one?”

It’s the photo Oliver had taken in secret, the flash of light filling Elio’s bedroom like a bolt of lighting to capture a turning point in their affair. Capturing their moment that Elio realizes will now define both their lives where circumspection had given way to trust, both physical and emotional. Where attraction had turned to affection and affection had rounded the corner towards love.

It is the picture neither of them could part with even through the month they’d lost to angst. Sentimental to a fault, the both of them. Elio is glad to see it’s so.

They both look at Elio’s screen for a moment. It’s easy to see how their current setup mirrors the shape in the picture, nestled close and soft, the intimacy that had existed from day one rekindled.

“Take another one,” Oliver suggests.

Happily, Elio flips around the camera. He props his arm up high to capture both of them in the frame and turns his face towards the camera. Just as he taps the screen to take the shot, Oliver hooks his finger under Elio’s chin and kisses him soundly on the lips as the camera clicks.

The lighting is off, leaving the image a bit blurry. Elio’s hair is a mess and Oliver’s hospital gown isn’t one for the red carpet but if one were to look closely enough at the photo, they would see tears glittering at the corner of Elio’s smile creased eyes.  

“We can use that,” Oliver says, his voice a tired rumble. “When we’re ready to come out as a couple.”

Elio had never thought of that as being a separate step in Oliver’s coming out journey. But he likes what that infers: that he is now Oliver Sugarman’s boyfriend.

“So you’re still going to do it, then?” Elio asks. “Not just friends and family, but you still want to come all the way out?”

Oliver nods. It’s a tender, sheepish look that asks for one last line of affirmation from Elio that he’s really all in on this fight, just like he’d promised before.

Elio hums thoughtfully, tilting his head back to rest on Oliver’s shoulder to consider the picture again. “Slap a filter on it and it’ll be perfect.”

Oliver kisses his hair, inhaling, not seeming to care that Elio’s hair is unwashed, maybe even enjoying it a bit. He’s missed this feeling of insatiable desire Oliver has for him.

“Say what you said to me,” Oliver murmurs, his mouth still hovering against Elio’s skull. “Before.”

“When before?” Elio asks.

“This morning when I woke up.  I want to make sure I never forget the sound of you saying it and with this head of mine, you just never know...”

Elio smirks. He’s pretty sure he’ll happily say those words to Oliver every day for the rest of his life if it helps him remember.

“I love you, Oliver.”

Oliver lets out a holistic, healing sigh. “I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, so much fluffy, schmoopy, fluff, isn't it fun???
> 
> 2 more hefty chapters to go, plus an extensive epilogue. It has been my distinct honor telling this story to you all.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver comes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got longer than expected - so 32 chapters instead of 31 now!

  
**_Many thanks to everyone for your thoughts and positive energy over the last week. Happy to be home in Evanston. It’s gonna be a long road but I’ve got the best docs and so many people around who love me so I know I’m going to make it back out on the field soon. ✔@sugarmansugarrush January 15, 2019_ **

The strangest thing about his knee injuries is that, for all their career ending implications if not treated properly, Oliver can still walk. In fact, he is encouraged to.

Though he can only manage it slowly, lumbering like Frankenstein’s monster with one knee completely immobilized in a brace from thigh to shin to set the non-displaced kneecap fracture. It’s like learning how to walk again in a way, the left side of his body having to adjust to a swing of a limb instead of a bend. His right being forced to accommodate for the awkwardness with extra work and the assistance of a crutch.

And after a few days at home, off the mainline painkillers and constant medical team doting that kept him propped or angled just right for comfort, he almost thinks he could handle the swollen, bruised ache in his knee if it weren’t for the other, more mercurial, injury he’s dealing with. Even a walk across his apartment to get a glass of water can leave the room spinning, his stomach on the verge of emptying its contents all over the floor.

It’s almost like the concussion symptoms get worse as the days go by. The headaches settle in, a near constant, underlying thrum that can spike to something akin to a blinding fire at the base of his skull or the the feeling like his eyes are about to be pushed out of his skull if he even attempts to read a book. God forbid he look at the brightness of a TV screen or laptop monitor, he might as well be staring at the solar eclipse. Writing anything longer than a tweet or a quick text requires such a new level of concentration it leaves him both frustrated and exhausted so he doesn’t bother really.

Returning to school for the semester is obviously out of the question. The realization that he won’t graduate this spring is almost as hard to stomach as the fact that he probably won’t be ready to enter the draft either.

Professor Perlman is on the list of visitors who come by to wish him well on one of the days that is full of more sleeping than wakefulness. “We can keep working on your thesis when you feel you’re ready. Consider it an extracurricular perk of a certain relationship,” he says with a wink.

The days unfold as a study in humility and admitting defeat, something Oliver has never been good at. He has a winner’s heart, but there is way to beat a concussion. One must simply live through it and endure.

  
His mother moves in, taking off several weeks from work at her real estate firm, as they wait for for his ACL surgery.

“We have to wait for the sweet spot,” one of his many doctors explains. Perform the surgery too early and they risk an incomplete rehab, too late and they risk tearing other tendons as his body tries to compensate for the original injury.

She cooks comforting meals that he’s loved his whole life and cleans him up when the nausea takes over and makes his bed every morning. He depends on her in a way he wishes he didn’t need to. For a 22 year old who had, up until this injury, been taking claim to his life and on the verge of a career that would define his manhood, having his mother clucking around cramps any sense of independence he’d established for himself.

And it certainly has been an obstruction for his renewed relationship with Elio, too.

The traditional “meet the parents” moment hadn’t been traditional at all, coming that same day that Oliver had woken up to the inconceivable scene of Elio asleep at his side.

He can’t remember the hit that felled him or waking up in the ambulance as they drove him off the field but he’ll never forget that moment. He’d blinked his eyes again and again, trying to bring that blurry mess of curls into focus, certain it must be cruel trick of his injured brain, like a person on the verge of death who sees a loved one calling them back from the edge.

Which is why he’d reached out to touch him. He couldn’t trust his eyes, but his hands would remember the feel of Elio’s curls laced between his fingers.

“Elio?” he’d said then, less in attempt to wake him but to test his own reality. Elio had proven more concrete and solid than ever before, repentant and committed.

“I love you, too,” had been a prelude to a deep sleep they had both desperately needed. Luckily, it had been a nurse that found them so entwined on Oliver’s hospital bed and not his parents, waking them gently with a smile and the news that Oliver needed to be taken for more tests.

After a quick trip to the hotel room Elio’s father had booked for him for a shower and little more, at Oliver’s insistence, Elio had returned to the hospital. His entrance had acted as a proverbial record scratch, cutting off all conversation in the room.

Elio had looked from Oliver to his parents and back to Oliver, panicked and ready to flee. His parents had looked back and forth between themselves then to Oliver, too. They’d all been waiting on him on how to relieve the awkwardness in the room, somehow. But he was the guy dealing with a the traumatic brain injury. He’d had no idea how this was all supposed to proceed. So he’d just said, “Guys, this is Elio. Elio, my mom and dad.”

Elio had waved before gripping his coat again, his knuckles white.

His father had spoken first, in his most stern, prosecutorial voice. “I thought you two had…” He’d made a splitting motion with his first two fingers, pressing them side by side before breaking them apart.

His mother, with a much better read on the situation, had said with a testy eye towards her husband, “Well, clearly they’ve…” She’d reversed his hand gesture, bringing her fingers back together and twisting them. Proving the point without becoming obscene.

Oliver had caught the hint of a smirk on Elio’s lips.

When his doctor had shown up a few minutes later to talk about discharge timelines, his father, still woefully uncomfortable though by no means cruel had asked, “Don’t you think this is a discussion for family only?”

“No,” Oliver had said. “Elio stays.”

So he had.

And he he has.

Having Elio here with him during the inbetween times of the day, a constant, sleeping in his bed every night, has been nothing short of amazing. It’s what he’s wanted since the day he realized his feelings for Elio were so much more than simple desire. He never thought they’d have a chance for them to just be a couple but they do now.

Only, he never wanted it to be like this.

Not in a world where Oliver needs help to even do something as simple as get dressed because buttons take too much concentration on some days. “Just where a sweatshirt instead,” Elio would say, tossing the heavy purple fabric in Oliver’s face so he’s able to catch it.

Not where when Elio kisses him before bed his thoughts and instincts say Yes. More. Please. I’ve missed you and I fucking want you. but his body says Nothing, unable to build up the smallest reaction to the man whose body and touches drove him to the brink time and again before his injury.

Not when Elio pulls back from those kisses, a wilting look in his eyes that he tries so hard to hide as he rolls over, settling against Oliver’s pillows with a soft, “G’night”.

There are days where he finds himself crying for no real reason and others where he is aggressively frustrated, lashing out at anyone who dares help him. He knows it’s just the concussion, his brain attempting to heal, but it feels like him. Like he is the one who is an emotional basket case or a total ass hole.

His life is out of his control and he hates that.

One night, while his mother sleeps on the air mattress set up for her in the spare room, he and Elio snuggle on the couch under a large blanket, his left leg artfully propped on the foot rest. This feels genuine enough, a domestic moment watching a baking competition on Netflix.

Well, Elio is watching at least. Oliver just listens to the running commentary from the competitors and judges, all in pleasant variations of English accents, with his eyes closed and his head tilted back, only opening them for a brief moment to see the finished products.

Even so, by the second episode, the volume gets to be too much, his head starting to ache.

“Mind if I turn it down a bit?” He asks.

“Go for it,” Elio mumbles, his jaw encumbered by where it rests on Oliver’s chest.

But then Oliver can’t find the remote anywhere. His fingers scramble unhelpfully between the cushions. Behind his back. “The fuck is it,” he berates himself as he twists dramatically in his increasingly frantic search

Finally, he ends up thrashing around, yanking the blanket off aggressively. The the remote flings to the other side of the room. It had been in his lap all along.

Elio sits up, straight backed and weary in the face of Oliver’s tantrum. “Hey, Ollie,” he says and the tone of his voice is too much. It’s too much sweetness that Oliver can’t deserve. “It’s ok.”

“Why are you even here?” Oliver snaps. “This is such bull shit, Elio.” He’s panting, his knee throbbing in time with the pulse in his head. “You didn't sign up to take care of some invalid. Some guy who can even think straight enough to get it up for you.”

After a second of stunned quiet where Elio’s expression seems to ask if he’s going to make a joke about ‘Oliver’ and ‘straight’, he calmly gets up off the couch and retrieves the remote.

“Actually, I did so…I’m giving you my best Florence Nightingale routine here. Or do I need to get the full sexy nurse costume for you to get it?”

“I don’t want a nurse. I want a boyfriend.”

It’s the first time he’s called Elio that out loud but his unhinged mind is unable even latch onto that momentous moment through the seemingly endless agitation.

“Well, you have both. If you need it.” Elio sits back down, handing the remote back to Oliver, and with it, a modicum of control that his life is seriously lacking. “And besides, if you think getting into your pants again is the only reason I’m still here then you’re sorely mistaken.”

“Why else would you be?” He can’t help the way he lashes to out. “I’m just some guy from Grindr, right?”

Is this retribution? Returned cruelty for when Elio had thrown similar words at him? His chaotic subscious reminding him that even though he’s forgiven Elio he’s clearly not forgotten?

Elio looks at him, jaw slack, eyes all fire and hurt. And Oliver’s emotional swing pendulums to the opposite end of the spectrum. This isn’t him talking, just his injury and he bites back tears as he falls against Elio’s chest and whispers out a sobbed apology.

“It’s ok, it’s ok,” Elio says, cradling Oliver’s head against him. Oliver is fairly sure the gentle rocking he feels isn’t just a bout of dizziness, but Elio actually comforting them both. Elio lifts his face to his, his thumbs pressing against the hinge of his jaw. “I’m exactly where I want to be ok?” He kisses him once, breathless. “ _Mon amour. J’taime. Tu comprends?_ ”

Oliver nods, fully penitent.

“Good.  Now press play. I want to know who wins bread week.”

*

In his dream, Oliver is playing chess with his cousin. Maggie. The one from Walla-Walla who he hasn’t seen in years.  She got married recently, didn’t she? Oliver couldn’t go. He’d had a game.

He’s warm so he must be in Hawaii.  Of course, Hawaii. He’s never been, but ok.  His brain supplies the location at random but in the context of his REM sleep it makes perfect sense.

Dreams have been few and far between since the concussion, his brain needing to rest even in sleep. But this dream is a pleasant enough one to be having, even though he’s awful at chess.

“Check mate,” Maggie grins, her dark, thick brow raising almost maniacally as she sets up the board for another game.  Warm wind blows through the tropically decorated home they’re staying in and Oliver thinks he smells coffee.

It must be some sort of family reunion because other random family members begin settling around to watch them play while in the distance Oliver can hear his mother giving orders in the kitchen.

This is also no surprise.

“The meatloaf is already baked, so just take it out in the morning if you’re going to eat it that night. I’ve written the cooking time and temp on the outside of the tinfoil but I can email them to you, too.”

Monosyllabic, closed-mouth replies come from whomever she’s talking to. The voice riding the fine line of barely contained annoyance and patience. In his dream, Oliver’s attention is taken from another miserable chess match towards that man in the kitchen, trying to identify its know-it-all cadence. He feels like he knows it for sure.

“Now. The chicken also needs to be thawed ahead of time. But it’s raw. So it needs to get cooked all the way to 165 degrees, at least…”

“Mrs. Sugarman, I know that, ok?”

Finally the voice breaks through and so does Oliver’s conscious mind.

That’s Elio. And he’s not in Hawaii, he’s fallen asleep on the couch in his apartment after this pre-surgery physical therapy that morning. He hadn’t been dreaming that conversation at all.  

“I’m not planning on giving Oliver salmonella poisoning from under-cooked chicken. I grew up in Italy. I know how to feed people.”

Oliver turns slightly on the couch.  The fogginess in his brain has little to do with his injury and more to do with the disorienting experience of waking up in the middle of the day to a blossoming fight between his  mother and his boyfriend.

It hasn’t been easy for either of them these past few weeks as they’ve both tried to create space for themselves in Oliver’s life and his recovery. Elio the partner. His mother the caregiver. Both immeasurably important in Oliver’s recovery, but for very different reasons. It’s been a recipe for disaster and resentment.

But after nearly three weeks, his mother is finally heading back to Massachusetts later today. It will just be him and Elio from now on. And maybe it’s because yesterday was the first day since he got home that Oliver didn’t need pain meds for his head or because he’s simply reached his quota of coddling for a lifetime, but Oliver, for one, is very ready.

“Well, excuse me for wanting make sure you boys have enough food to eat while I’m gone. I would stay if he’d let me, you know.”

“We'll manage," Elio says, testy.  "Besides, it’s only for a few weeks. You’ll be back for his surgery, anyway.”

Interaction between them has been minimal and always very polite. Solo conversations have been nearly non-existent so Oliver rolls onto his side, fully awake, listening as to how this one will unfold.  

“I’m just having a hard time leaving my son very injured son alone with his friend. _Boyfriend_.” She immediately corrects herself in a berating tone. “I’m sorry,” she continues. “I don’t mean to sound small minded.”

Silence from Elio for a beat. Then, “It’s ok.” Oliver can imagine the cool way he must be leaning against the counter, his arms crossed, his true opinion undetermined.

“You really have been so lovely, Elio, and you do seem to truly care for him.”

“Course, I do.”

Elio says it so quickly that it’s impossible for Oliver not to feel the love in it, even from the other room.

“It’s just been a lot for his father and I this past month. One minute you think you’ll be planning a wedding next spring and he’ll be moving somewhere to start his professional career and then...”

Her voice breaks, followed by the sound of a few covered sniffles. Oliver realizes it’s probably time to intervene, even going so far as swing shift the blanket someone had put over him off his legs and sit up, stars swimming in front of his eyes for a moment.

But then, Elio speaks up, voice gone soft with concern. “Hey, no. No, no. I can only imagine how crazy this has all been. It’s been mad enough for me.”

Oliver sits, frozen. In his kitchen, his mother is crying and Elio, _his Elio_ , is comforting her. It’s remarkable moment, the importance of which does not go idly by him, and he doesn’t dare interrupt it by showing his face.

“He didn’t think we’d…turn him away or...” His mother asks, sounding so pained. “Is that why he didn’t tell us?”

Her question pierces Oliver right through chest and seizes him around his heart. Even in the hanging silence of that hotel room the night he’d come out, with the lights of Time Square an ever shifting kaleidoscope outside the window behind him, she hadn’t dared ask such a personal question. But she asks it now, not of Oliver but of the man he has proclaimed to love.

He waits, breathless, for Elio’s answer.

“No, I’m sure he didn’t. But to be honest, we never talked about it much. Right from the start, he made it very clear that coming out was never an option for him. Then all of a sudden it was and he was so determined. It was a shock for me, too.” Elio pauses with his own lingering regrets. “But if I know Oliver, I’m sure his keeping this from you had nothing to do with how you or Mr. Sugarman would react and all to do with preserving this…this perfectly sculpted world he’d designed for himself. I truly think he had himself convinced he was happy.”

“Until he met you.”

There’s a sweetness to his mother’s voice and Oliver hears Elio makes a bashful noise. He blushes too, for Elio’s sake.

“Oh, but all those years with Chiara. He must have been miserable.”

Elio says nothing. Had he shrugged away her comment? Agreed?

“What kind of mother am I to not notice something this huge about my only child?”

“The kind who was buying exactly what he was selling to the entire world. God, if I hadn’t met him the way I did....” Elio stops, filling the space with an awkward sound. “Let’s just say I probably would have bought into it too.”

There is the sound of the fridge door opening and closing. Two empty glasses hitting the counter top and being filled. The zip of his mother’s purse, the crinkle of plastic and the delicate blowing of her nose.

Then silence again.

“I know you’re still probably getting used to this whole idea of, well, _me_. But hey, look on the bright side,” Elio’s voice perks up, becoming light and excited and Oliver wonders where on earth he could possibly be going with this. “At least I’m Jewish, right?”

His mother laughs through her tears, a high, unexpected and girly sound, the likes of which Oliver hasn’t heard from her years. Elio’s baritone chuckle joins in while Oliver lays back on the couch, his eyes on the ceiling hoping that the amiable silence in the kitchen means his mom and Elio are hugging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and the next chapter are two scenes I had considered including in the epilogue instead. But I think they both deserved to be in present tense and fully fleshed out. Elio's line harkens back to Mrs. Sugarman's desire for Oliver to just find a nice Jewish girl. So he got it half right at least. (It was also supposed to originally be Oliver's line and this scene was going to be between Oliver and his mom, but I kind of love it being with Elio instead.)
> 
> Next chapter, we'll see Chiara again. And Oliver's concussion will continue to improve. 
> 
> Also, not a doctor. Never torn my ACL. Never had a concussion. I've so appreciated the comments from readers who have suffered similar injuries. Please keep me honest!


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Closure, healing, progress. Sex. :)

_**Plusieurs grandes écoles de musique Américaines ont réprimé des années de traitements abusifs de la part de certains professeurs à l’encontre de leurs élèves. Ne serait-il pas temps pour notre Conservatoire de Paris de faire de même?** _   
_**Le Parisien, 13 février 2019.** _

Oliver’s surgery is scheduled for the first day of February at a hospital right on the shore in downtown Chicago. His room has views of the lake and Evanston beyond. The staff pride themselves on having worked on members of the Chicago Blackhawks and the Bears, so Oliver feels like he’s in good, highly experienced, hands.

“Textbook,” his surgeon announces to all those in attendance of his recovery room, including his parents, Des, and Coach. Elio had decided that he’d had enough of hospitals, (and the questioning looks as to why this kid was here _again_ ) so had waited for news of the outcome from home.

“He picked up before I even knew my call had gone through,” his mother says with a knowing smile, smoothing Oliver’s hair away still anesthesia drowsy eyes. “I think someone was very eager to hear everything went well.”

Oliver is up and walking a few hours later, as per doctor’s orders, and he goes home on two crutches the following day. By one week out, he’s down to one crutch and now almost two weeks after surgery, he’s walking in was that's almost normal for the first time in a month.

It feels revolutionary.

The repair has given him a steadiness that spreads upwards into his head, as well. Everything is clearer, his thoughts, his vision, his emotions. It really feels like he's turned a corner.

So much so that he convinces Elio to skip his last class of the day on a Wednesday afternoon and he gets behind the wheel of his jeep to take them for a drive down Lake Shore Drive.

They blast music, pressing the upper limits of the legal speed, hugging the curves with the windows rolled down on one of those oxymoronic winter days where the sun is high, the sky a special kind of pristine, cloudless blue, a shade that only a child’s imagination would dare paint. And yet the air is still shockingly cold, the kind that rips the air from the lungs before there is even a chance to use it.

Life feels simple with his eyes flitting from the road to the way Elio’s curls catch the wind. Elio grabs his hand across the gear shifter, pressing a kiss to their laced fingers and tossing him a smile. For the first time since Indianapolis, there is hope on Oliver's horizon in the form of Elio’s beautiful, carefree gaze locked on his.

They still haven’t slept together again since Indianapolis though not for Oliver’s lack of wanting to, of course. Not a day goes by where he doesn’t miss their days of fiery intimacy, where just the slightest narrowing of Elio’s eyes would have Oliver wrapping his arms around Elio’s ass, hoisting him up around his waist with feigned shrieks of protest and have him against the closest flat surface in seconds. He misses the liquid dip of Elio’s fingers inside him. The smell of his lover’s spit or aftershave or cum on his skin that he waits to wash off for as long as he can.

Without a doubt, Elio has been kind and sweet and patient and funny and ridiculous since their reunion. He’s been everything a boyfriend and partner should be in the scenario, including infinitely patient.

The sun is long gone after their drive and a quick detour to Elio’s apartment to pick of more of his things. It’s not that Elio spends every night at Oliver’s place now, just most.

“Come here,” he says, pulling Elio close by the thin, pale blue fabric on the front of his sweater.  
  
He licks a long line up the side of Elio’s neck, his tongue catching the hollow of Elio’s jaw and the delicate fuzz that passes for stubble.

Elio keens, hands braced on the wall beside Oliver’s ribs. He lifts his chin to give him a longer path to trace.

“What are you doing?” Elio murmurs, as his chest connects with Oliver’s, his back creating a beautiful arc.

God, Oliver needs this. _They_ need this. It’s been too long and he’s ready, mind and body. He’s also in no mood for being subtle so he plies Elio’s hand away from the wall and places in between them, flattening it against the fly of his jeans.

“What does it feel like I’m doing?” This erection is hard won, after weeks of physically being unable. He’ll never make fun of Viagra ads again.

“Are you sure you’re even allowed to have an orgasm yet?” Oliver hates how much of an authority on post concussion care Elio has made himself. Regardless of his clinical concern, Oliver feels a surge of pleasure, unmuted and delicious, as Elio’s fingers curl against the fabric and around his length.

“It’s been over a month. And I may have tried things out this morning.”

This snaps Elio to attention. “What? When?”

“In the shower. When I got up.” He’s mildly proud of his innuendo.

“Of all the days for me to have an 8am class.” Elio’s body softens back against Oliver, though he can feel that Elio is anything but soft. He cradles Oliver’s jaw, his mouth a whisper with touch and breath. “That’s so not fair.”

“Well, I woke up and things needed attending to so... I promise, my head won’t explode.” 

“I don’t know. That was just a bit of solo play,” he says, his voice carrying shades of both filthy flirtation and actual worry. He shrugs as he cocks his head gently to the left in the direction of the bedroom and pulls Oliver away from the wall by the waistband of his pants. “But it might after this.”

He kisses him again. Tongue deep, eyes lidded but not closed so Oliver can witness the desire that he’s been reigning in all these weeks and is about to let explode.

They come back together like muscle memory. Like autopilot if autopilot means the chance to focus 100% on sensation instead of the mundane things like the pull of zippers or the shedding of boxers. Oliver pulls the comforter back from the sheets so they can slide into his bed, skin to skin, clutching together.

With a languid exactness, Elio sits back and spreads Oliver’s legs before ducking beneath the covers. Unable to watch the show, Oliver closes his eyes, hands resting on the mound of Elio’s bobbing head as Elio’s mouth, warmer than warm and lush, finds Oliver’s cock.

It’s feels better than all those times he’d tried to remember it. Filling that empty month without Elio with fantasies that did nothing to repair the hollowness he felt inside.

“So good, Elio,” he mutters, as Elio’s hand joins his mouth.

And yet, there is something lacking. Elio’s hands aren’t nearly as assertive as Oliver knows they can be. His mouth seems without its usual finesse. Oliver hasn't had sex since the end of November and this should be rocking his world, but it's not.  Not quite.  

It’s not the first time he’d worried that their relationship will forever be compartmentalized to before and after. Their beautiful, electric affair has been railroaded by his injuries. And even as his injuries continue to heal, he worries that he and Elio won’t. That too much time of celibacy has passed for them to ever get back to the inevitable, sultry, life changing romance they had had.

“Harder, babe. Come on,” Oliver says, begging Elio to play his hand in full. But nothing changes, not his pace, not his pressure.

It’s vanilla of the worst order, not only careful but pitying.

Oliver can’t stand it.  He pulls at his hair, pushing up from the pillows onto his elbows.

“I’m not going to break if you suck my dick. So fucking suck it!”

So much for having that irrational frustration under control. But this doesn’t feel like something to do with his brain injury. This feels real and justified and he won’t apologize for it.

Elio tosses the sheets off over his shoulders as Oliver scoots up on the bed. Elio’s cheeks are flushed, lips wet pink, his hair is a debauched mess around his face. But his hands fall to his lap with supplication.

“I need to tell you something.”.

If his worst fear was that he and Elio would never be able to relight that spark between them and have it burn just as bright and hot has it had when they first met, Elio’s words spark a terror so much deeper and more horrific that he hadn’t even allowed his thoughts to go there.

Elio is a primally sexual man, he knows this. And of course he has needs. Needs Oliver has been physically unable to see to for over a month now…

“No, no…sweetheart,” Elio says, reading the panic on Oliver’s face like a cipher. He crawls forward to catch Oliver’s face between his hands. “Not that. Well, yes that but not what you’re thinking, ok?” Oliver looks Elio briefly in the eye, still wary. “New Years Eve. While we were split up.”

Somehow that doesn’t feel all that much better.

With all arousal stripped from the room, Oliver feels especially exposed in his nakedness, his cock softening by the second. He pulls a pillow over his lap, hugging it close to his body.

“Guy or girl?” He asks.

“Does it matter?”

“I don’t know. Guy or girl.”

Elio takes a second to process the anger still in Oliver’s voice before admitting, “A guy.”

Oliver feels his jaw clench. If Elio had been worried about raising his heart rate, he’s not done a great job avoiding that.

“Did you at least use protection?” Elio looks back to his lap, guilt ridden. “Jesus, Elio. What happened to safety first, huh?” Oliver feels himself pull ever farther away across the mattress.

“We only gave each other blow jobs,” Elio says in defense. “It’s not like we've used protection for those either.”

“Yeah, but you and me, we were…”

He doesn’t go so far to say exclusive. Because they weren’t. Not really.

“Not that first night in Rome, we weren’t,” Elio reminds him.

Into the silence that follows Oliver realizes just how far they have come. How many impossible things had to happen for them to even be sitting here on his bed, having this fight. If that is what it is.

“I was a mess without you, ok?” Elio says. “I quite literally made myself sick being with him. I’m so sorry, Oliver.”

He's already feeling calmer.

“We weren't together. I mean, it sucks but why didn’t you just tell me?” Oliver asks.

“Because I...” Elio struggles to find the words. “Because I finally had you back, you know?  And I thought you’d hate me for doing that and I’ve only just realized just how fucking freaked out I am that I’m going to do something to lose you and I can’t, Oliver. I can’t lose you, like, ever and God, I sound needy as fuck…” His fingers play softly with the skin of his neck as he averts his eyes skyward, tears just there on his lashes. His words trail away to a whisper. He clearly regrets them.

Oliver cherishes them.

Elio is so small in that moment of confession, his shoulders narrow and rounded, arms pale and thin. But then he’s always been that way. Oliver remembers seeing him that first night in the doorway to that ratty flat in Rome, his bare, nearly concave chest, those grey sweats that almost didn't stay up on his hips. Physically, even in his current state but certainly when he’d been in peak form when they’d met, it would have taken no effort at all for Oliver to overwhelm him. Elio would have been an easy and thoughtless conquest that first night, if that was all he’d been looking for.

But instead Elio had been the one with the power play, showing a nervous Oliver a path previously unknowable. He’s been following that path Elio revealed to him ever since.

It is this exact dichotomy, this push and push, this alternation of power and yielding, security and unease, emotional and physical, that Oliver knows will keep them together. Forever, if he’s lucky.

Oliver pulls Elio next to him. They fix the blankets around them, all safe and calm, for now. Forgiven.

“I’ll go get tested. Tomorrow. I mean, the chances are minuscule but, still, I’ll go to student health.  First thing.”

Oliver considers his offer and the date with a scoff. “Happy fucking Valentines Day. Take a number and have some blood work.”

Elio looks at him, a look on his face as if he’d forgotten what tomorrow is, too. “Well, it could be. I mean, I assume you’ve been given every bit of testing known to man with all your hospital visits.” Oliver nods. “And if you’re clean and I’m clean. I’ve never...before.”

His final words are a barely there whisper, but he looks Oliver straight on as he says them.

Oliver feels himself flush as recognition of what could happen between them registers: this time he could be Elio’s first. His only.

“I couldn’t ask you this before,” Oliver says, holding that unflinching gaze. “But just so we’re clear, if we do this...I will not share you. Not anymore.”

Elio gives an unsteady nod, sure of what he’s about to agree to but also amazed and a bit turn on by Oliver’s directness. Oliver tucks that away for future reference.   
  
He reaches for his phone. Settings>Profile>Delete Profile>Are you sure?> Yes>Uninstall App. He does this twice, both hookup apps. It’s a minute gesture but not without its meaning.

“Bye, bye, Ovid quote,” Oliver says, as he watches over his shoulder. Elio snickers. “But you do that have profile pic saved somewhere right?”

Elio tosses his phone to the floor before straddling Oliver’s hips. “Yes,” he hisses against Oliver’s lips before leaning down for a kiss. “I’ll send it to you. But now I want you to show me what you did in the shower.”

*

**_Happy Valentines Day, Wildcats!  Hope where ever you are, you're celebrating with those you love!  #onceawildcatalwaysawildcat  @NorthwesternU_ **

_**February 14, 2018** _

_Hey, hope you’re well. You don’t still have_   
_that key to my place do you?_

_I’m good and yes, I do. Want me_   
_to bring it by?_

_That would be awesome. Thx._

_K. Class until 11. Be by after_

 

He’d met her when she still had braces. When her body was just emerging from post-middle school awkwardness before she’d learned how to control her lion’s mane of curls or the power she held with a well-fitting v-neck sweater.

He’d been her friend before her boyfriend, someone she’d trusted, someone who was always there to listen. “You’re different from the other guys,” she said but then he’d already known that.

The first time he’d tried to kiss her, she’d given him the cheek but then blushed so sweetly, her hands clasped behind her back as she’d nearly skipped away towards her car parked their school parking lot, the Friday night lights still shining, helmet in his hand, he’d found it didn’t really matter.

He’d watched her face narrow over the years, her roundness mould to sultry curves. He’d watched her change her from cute girl to beautiful woman. He’d been witness to her blossoming in college, becoming a popular and natural leader of her sorority and sincere in her faith. She’d been his constant. A part of the fixtures. He’d even wondered, through his anesthetic haze after surgery, why she wasn’t there. Because she was always there for the big things.

Chiara. Safe and easy and guiltless in Oliver’s narcissistic story-making, where she’d played both the romantic lead and the antagonist depending on the day or his mood. Or hers.

She’d only ever known the version of him that he’d wanted her know, the part that hoped she’d remain ever faithful, devoted to him til death they did part.

That feels like a different life now. How quickly her face has become a memory now that his sight is filled with a different, more complete love, that blinds him from that which was only ever false when he’d hoped it was true.

Elio had left that morning with the promise of what would happen between them that night dancing in his eyes. With the air cleared and Oliver feeling closer to him than ever, he’d immediately made a phone call to his agent/manager that morning.

He’s sick of keeping what he feels for Elio behind closed doors or only between family and friends. Love is love is love, and theirs is beautiful.

It’s time for that press conference.

“You’re ready for the final stop on your coming out tour, huh?” His agent had said over speaker phone from his office in New York.

“Sure am,” Oliver had agreed, though he really wished he wouldn’t call it that.

“I’ll make some calls and text you when I’ve got a date and a time confirmed. You’re gonna make history, Oliver,” he’d said, his voice round with total respect.

Chiara isn’t wearing a coat when Oliver opens the door for her just before lunch. She must have come from the boyfriend’s place, just a few floors up.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” she says, matching his shy uncertainty in kind.

Oliver had owed her the truth from the beginning. So when he’d decided to come out to her during winter break, he’d promised himself not placate her with cliches or platitudes. The weight of their history deserved that much. He would not sugar coat it or try to hide any shameful corner from her. Not about knowing he was gay even when they first got together. Not about the other men he cheated on her with. Not about Elio and the way he’d changed everything.

His coming out to her was the only one where he worried the relationship might not survive.

And it nearly hadn’t.

There had been slammed car doors and uncharacteristic curses and days of silence where she went .off to pray for his sinful soul, he’d assumed. Until she’d texted him, on New Years Day, like is was some sort of resolution.

_Just tell me there were sometimes where we_   
_were genuinely happy._   
_Where it wasn't just a lie._

Countless memories, happy ones too, that had become a nondescript blur he could hardly remember, even though they’d felt like everything at the time, became distinct moments and he’d called her immediately. Together, they’d recounted each one.

“My God, look at you. All up and about,” Chiara says. Her eyes sparkle, genuinely happy for him, but there is a tinge of discomfort on her face too, worried she isn’t allowed to feel this relieved.

“Yes, I’m officially not a quadruped anymore. Or a tripod for that matter,” Oliver jokes. “Come in,” he says, as if suddenly remember his manners. Then when she hesitates, adds, “He’s not here.”

Chiara looks like she wants to say something like it wouldn’t matter if he were, but they both know that’s not quite true.

“So you started to go crazy yet?”

She walks into his apartment, a place she knew as well as anyone, and looks to see what has changed. He took her pictures down back in November. She makes note of this with a rueful smile.

“A bit. I’ve watched 5 seasons of Supernatural in the last month and I don’t even think I’m half way through the show. But it’s better now that I’m more mobile And that my head’s not a total loose canon. Even went for a drive yesterday.”

“Here,” She says, dangling the keys (one for the front of the building, one for the apartment and one for his storage unit in the basement) from the painted nail of her pointer finger. “Should probably have given them back to you a long time ago.”

“It’s ok,” Oliver says, pocketing them. A set of keys might not be the most flashy first Valentine’s Day present, but it sure feels romantic. His timing could not be more conspicuous and he’s certain she knows why he’s asked for them today.

“I should probably let you know, I’ll be having that press conference soon.”

Instead of a variation on the “You're sure?” response that his folks, Des and Coach had all given him when he'd told them this morning, that for all their support, still seem to suggest that they think Oliver is just a bit crazy, Chiara just asks, “When?”

“Next week, probably. It’s just, I’m sure people will be getting in touch with you after. You know, wanting to interview the scorned ex-girlfriend and all.”

“But I wasn’t…” Her eyes go wide. “You didn’t…”

Chiara covers her face with her hands and breaks down on her spot on the carpet. Emotions have run high from all corners of his life as of late so this display doesn’t off set him as it might before. He moves to her with familiar offers of sympathy. Soft, cooing words. His hand smoothing over her shoulder blades and leading her towards the couch. He sits next to her, their knees close but not touching.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, hand still on her back. “If you’re still...hurt, or whatever, about what happened. It’s completely understandable...What I did was -”

“No,” she cuts him off with a sniff. “This isn’t about us.”

Only this close does Oliver notice that even though he’s the one who has been in and out of hospitals she is the one who looks paler than usual. Dark rings under her eyes that she’s tried to mask with foundation and blush, her lips dry under a layer of gloss.

“What is it?”

She looks down protectively at her hands, almost the same way Elio had the night before. “I can’t.”

“Chiara,” he says, gently, waiting until she lifts her wet eyes to his. “You can still talk to me, you know that right? It's just me.”

It takes her another moment to muster what comes next.

“I’m late.”

Though he’s never slept with a woman he knows exactly what those words mean.

“How late?”

“6 weeks. I took a test over the weekend.”

“And?”

In a different universe this is a discussion they would have had together, maybe a few years from now, with very different repercussions, and he feels the nervous tension in his veins as if they are.

“Google says there is no such thing as a false positive.”

“Jesus, Chiara,” He breathes, then quickly adds an apology.

“It’s ok,” she says, glum but not unamused. “I think you using the Lord’s name in vain is the least of my worries right now, don’t you?”

Now is not the time for critiques of her Catholic school sex education failings or for reprimands that she should have known better than to not use condoms, especially considering what he and Elio plan on doing that very night.

Instead, he makes her quick cup of tea and brings a shot of whiskey out too, just in case.

“Wait,” he says holding both the mug and shot glass in his hands. “You can’t drink this.”

She smiles at him, her tears wiped away. “You’re allowed half a glass a day,” she says and pours the shot of whiskey into the tea before taking a sip.

“So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.” She plays with the handle of the mug. “I don’t believe in abortion.”

“You didn’t believe in sex before marriage either and yet here you are. Have you told Seth?”

  
She nods. “He thinks we should keep it. Get married after the draft in June. I wouldn’t be due until about a month later. He won’t go in first round like you will. He’ll probably have to spend a year or two in the D league, but it would be enough money for us to make it work, wherever he ends up. He's a good man, Oliver.”

It’s the wrong draft, for the wrong sport, with the wrong guy. But Oliver realizes it’s the right ending for Chiara.

“You love him?”

She nods, a half smile on her lips.

“Then I guess congratulations are in order,” he says and her smiles fills out with relief. Oliver opens his arms wide and she snuggles in for a hug. This is the moment, where exes become friends and Oliver finds himself smiling too.

He’s still reeling from Chiara’s news when Elio buzzes up to his apartment only a few hours later. He’d not spent his time worrying about Chiara, she’ll be a young mom, but she’ll be a good one. Instead his empathy had gone out to Seth, the point guard boyfriend with a decent outside shot and the chance a ok career in the NBA if he works on his defending. He’s only a junior, Oliver had realized, a full year younger than Oliver and Chiara’s news must be completely mind bending to him, a drastic spanner along his trajectory just like Oliver has experienced.

He’ll text him after March Madness is over. Take him out for a beer, maybe. They can talk sports, careers, and what they thought life would look like and how that’s changed. If nothing else, he can give him some advice on Chiara.

Elio still has the band-aid plastered to the inside of his elbow as he flings he coat off and meets Oliver with a bruising kiss.

“I take it everything came back ok,” Oliver asks, as he follows Elio’s beeline march towards the bedroom, working at his belt. Elio shucking his boots off and tossing them in over his shoulder.

“No, I’m laced with venereal disease which is why I’ve lured you into your bedroom, so you can become my next victim.” He pulls his shirt off by grabbing the back of the neck with both hands. He shakes his curls out, grinning like a man...well, like a man about to have the lay of his life. “Yes, I’m ok.”

If kisses can feel like starlight then these do. They’re more smiles than anything else. Greedy and giddy.

“Wait,” Oliver says, just as Elio has him backed up against the edge of the bed. “I forgot, I got you something. You know,” he says with a self-aware eye roll. “For the day. It’s over there, on the dresser.”

He hadn’t wrapped them or anything, as he was sure Elio would find that garish. But the keys look out of place enough for Elio to know they’re for him.

“Are these..?  Oliver.” He asks, giving him a crooked smile because of course they are. “Thank you, so much.”

“Now you can come and go as much as you please. But maybe we could focus more on the coming part, right now?”

With a growl, Elio lunges for him, nearly tackling him to bed if he wasn’t still thinking just a little about his knee. And to be fair it takes a minute to find the position that is most comfortable for Oliver, pillows are involved.

There is not talk about who will top first, because the night is long and they both will by the end of it, he’s sure. But eventually, Oliver finds himself on his side, Elio’s body spooned against his, gasping softly as Oliver removes his fingers from his body and replaces them with his naked cock all in one slick movement.

One frail, “Fuck,” is all Elio says before his words are lost to feeling and he falls silent, aside from his open-mouthed, breaths that escape him in time with Oliver’s. He barely has to move at all to feel blinded by the beauty of Elio's body grinding down on him with nothing between them to subdue the tight heat. It is more than enough. It is an apogee, destined to be sustained.

He remembers holding Elio just like this, back to chest, arms wrapped around Elio’s body, his hips moving in what then had been a pale mockery of the real act their first night in Rome. He could never have known, then, what it would feel like to give yourself completely over to another person like he and Elio do now. Body, soul, heart, life, this is the joining of so much more than bodies. Even the word love feels woefully insufficient.

And yet, trapped by the constraints of the only spoken language they both share, Elio uses that word again, just has he had that night in Rome. But tonight, as he gets close to his climax, trembling and abandoned in Oliver’s arms, the words from his mouth aren’t, “I love _this_ , Oliver,” but “I love _you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chiara mentions the D-League. This is the Developmental League for the National Basketball Association and is kind of like the minor leagues for pro-Basketball. Definitely still professional and they can get brought up to play with an NBA team. March Madness is the (most wonderful time of the year) massive college basketball tournament that happens in March/Early April every year. As opposed to college football which only involved 4 teams, this one has a field of 68 teams (64, plus 4 play in games). Always lots of Cinderella stories. 
> 
> Have I mentioned I love college basketball even more than college football?
> 
> Don't worry too much about the French translation. Just remember it was there - It has something to do about Paris Conservatory and them following the lead of some American music schools who have really cracked down on inappropriate behavior from their faculty towards students. Hmmm...Thanks you @tpmbouquins for the translation!


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver holds his press conference and his world changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final official "chapter". The Epilogue will jump several years into the future. 
> 
> I cannot thank you enough for all the support you've shown this story. Comments, kudos, reblogs, messages, art (!!!) - it's all been amazing. So inspirational and so encouraging. It's been an incredible journey for the boys and for me- but just like for Elio and Oliver, it's one that isn't over quite yet (I hope!) Please stay tuned in the epilogue for an announcement about Pocket's future. :)

**_ESPN, February 22, 2019, 11:00am. Oliver Sugarman Press Conference LIVE_ **

“I feel like I’m going to puke.”

Elio’s freezes where he’d been wranging the knot on Oliver’s tie, something far more complicated than the double Windsor he’d initially done.

“Wait, seriously?”

Even though Oliver has been feeling fine, occasionally knocked down by headaches if he pushes himself too far, Elio is immediately scanning his eyes, checking his pupils.  He's trained himself well in all things concussion.  Oliver appreciates the concern, finds it pretty darn adorable, actually.

He smiles down at him. “I’m just nervous.”

And rightfully so. Elio finishes his work on the tie and rests his hands on Oliver’s lapel.

Here in the ersatz green room setup just down the hall from the media room in what is usually the players lounge, he and Elio are safely surrounded by people who already know the truth about Oliver. His parents, Elio, Mr. Perlman, and Marzia (“Cause I get a comfort person too, ok?” as Elio had claimed earlier in the week.) Des, Ruiz, Jackson, Rick, all his fellow seniors from the team are here, having insisted that they wanted to be up on stage with Oliver, flanking him from behind much like do on field.  Their presence will create an impressive lineup of solidarity, a gesture that touched Oliver more than he’ll ever be able to express.

His team buddies recognize Elio from the hospital and if Oliver catches a few surreptitious stares from his buddies as they try to glean just how their Cap dating a guy might differ from their Cap dating a girl, the looks are always met with a small, slightly awkward but accepting smile before their eyes skip away.

Press from all the major networks and papers, both local and national, have been filling in for the last half hour, creating a buzz of anticipatory humanity in the room down the hall.

The event has been planned down to the minute by his agent. He hadn’t told the news outlets what exactly Oliver was going to announce only that it was big and that they wouldn’t want to miss the story.

When the time comes, he’ll go into the same media room where he has given countless post game interviews over the years. There won’t be a podium, just a table draped in Northwestern purple, set up at the front with an NU seal hanging on the wall behind. After Coach, his neurologist and orthopedic surgeon give a quick update on his treatment and general prognosis, he’ll sit down between them and give his statement. By the end, he will be the first out, gay college player, the first out, gay Heisman winner, the first out, gay potential #1 draft pick, the first out, gay National Championship winner.

It’s a lot of firsts. And history looms heavy.

Elio's fingers curl into the fabric over Oliver’s chest. “You can always just post something online, you know,” Elio says.

“I’m not going to come out via tweet.”

“Instagram?” He asks with a tepid look.

Oliver knows Elio is nervous too, on his behalf. That sympathetic anxiety he’s feeling is probably worse in some ways, because Elio isn’t the one who has been thinking and planning this moment for months, years if he’s honest. He isn’t the one with a speech folded into the breast pocket of his blazer, typed up the night before and rehearsed in front of the mirror twice this morning. Elio has no control over the situation or how the world will react. Elio can only hope for gentleness, when they both know that will only be part of the mix.

Telling the rest of the team had been proof of that. Most of his teammates had been fine with Oliver’s announcement but those you hadn’t...well it had been good practice in how to brace himself for what’s to come.

“I need to do this. You know that.”

“I know,” Elio says. “You sure you don’t want me to come out there? I could just stand in the back.” He’s eager but they’d all decided it would be best for him and his parents to watch through a closed circuit TV in this room just to keep the appearance of things being more official and about the team.

“I’d be too distracted by your beautiful face to get the words out.”

“Flattery, Mr. Sugarman,” Elio tsks with a wag of his finger as he trails away to refill his paper cup with coffee.

Oliver checks his phone. _10:57am._ So soon.  His stomach flips.

He’d hardly slept the night before. His guts a coiled mess, his heart pounding so loudly in his ears he’d tested his pulse several times just to make sure he wasn’t having some sort of cardiac event. He feels that same stress in his veins now, his fingertips freezing cold even as he knows he’s sweat through the dress shirt under his jacket.

The vibe of the room is similar to a locker room before a big game. There is little chatter, everyone seems focused, set with a grim determination to get this right.

When his agent opens the door, the noise from the media room builds.  His stomach flips.

“We’re ready,” he announces.

Coach puts his hand on Oliver shoulder. “I’ll see you out there, ok?” Oliver nods and goosebumps run across his skin.

Next thing he knows Des is clapping him on the back and his mother and father are hugging him and Elio is mouthing “Love you,” with paled lips and then he’s walking down the hall and into the press conference.

The last time the media, at large, had seen Oliver, he’d been being loaded into an ambulance somewhere near the 35 yard line, so the shutters on dozens of cameras click, their flashes popping from every direction, as he walks onto the stage on his own two feet. He manages to give them a quick wave of acknowledgement and a look that he hopes comes off as a smile.

He finds the faces of a few local reporters, from the Chicago Sun Times and the Tribune.  They are people who’ve followed him since he was a recruit, with their pads of paper at the ready. A familiar ESPN reporter sit in the front row with her legs crossed and her phone held up, recorder on. There is even a student from The Daily at the back, trying to look very serious amidst the professionals. He’s spoken to these reporters or others just like them dozens of times throughout his career, but he’s not sure any of them are ready for what’s about to happen.

He pulls out his papers, glad to see that his hands are steady, even if his next exhale isn’t. He glances over his shoulder to see Des and Ruiz there to his left, their hands clasped at their back like soldiers at ease.

He clears his throat and leans towards the mic.

“Thanks for all being here this morning.”  He recognizes the voice that comes out the audio system as his own though it sounds like it’s coming from somewhere else. Like a puppet, he’s mouthing the words, but surely he’s not the one speaking them, is he?

He focuses back on the words in front of him once more, centering, before beginning again.

“Before we get started here, I’d like to offer some thank you’s. First, to my agent Lance Hardesty, for organizing this event today. To ESPN for setting this time aside in their schedule for this press conference to be broadcast live on ESPNU. I’d like to thank the staff of Ryan Field for letting us use the space and being so accommodating in what is usually their off season. I also want to thank Coach and Drs. Wexly and Freiberg for giving you an update on my health. I quite literally wouldn’t be here talking to all today if it weren’t for their expertise and the excellent care I’ve received from them both.”

He’d been instructed to include that opening by his dad.  He'd found it a bit formulaic, but proper nonetheless.

“I can read through what you wrote. If you want,” Elio had offered that very morning, his hair still damp from the shower. The air in Oliver’s apartment was tinged with the scent of his shampoo, the one that he orders online and whose label is in French only. It’s a smell he’s gotten very used to over the past month.

“Nah, it’s ok,” Oliver had said. He’d thrown two ties on the bed and asked Elio for his opinion, changing the subject quickly.

It’s not like he wouldn’t have valued Elio’s thoughts on his statement, it’s just he’s felt oddly protective of it. He knows this announcement will send shock waves, certain to be played and replayed on TV and online, again and again, posted and quoted and critiqued and analysed and praised (hopefully). And he wants these words to be his and his alone. Undiluted by the opinion of others, even others he loves and respects.

He wants to own his coming out story completely.

With a quick shift in his seat, Oliver launches in.

“I certainly didn’t think I’d be coming to talk to you like this today. And I definitely didn’t think my season would end the way it did.” He stops, giving a well rehearsed grin. “Well, no, that’s not true. I always knew the 2018 season would end in a Northwestern National championship, I just figured I’d be conscious for it.”

There is a bubbling of polite laughter. This is the kind of Oliver Sugarman they’re all here for, charming and well spoken.

“As I’m sure Coach and my doctors informed you, I suffered a level 5 concussion, a non-displaced fracture of my left patella and a complete rupture of my left ACL during the Championship game. Sounds pretty terrible, I know, but the good news is that all current indicators suggest I will make a full recovery and be able to return to play within 6 months. The bad news however, is that due to my injuries, I will not be able to participate in any pre-draft combines or any pre-season training. After consulting with my coach and my agent, I have decided to not enter the 2019 draft.”

Bombshell number one: officially deployed. The sea of cameras flares back to life.

“Because of this I need to offer another thank you to the governing board of the NCAA who, due to the lateness and severity of my injuries, has offered me a retroactive medical red-shirt for this season.  This means,” he pauses, smiling shyly. “I guess I’m going to be a Northwestern Wildcat for one more season.”

They think this is it.  That is his big announcement.   On any other day it would be. The player whose name has been first on the lips of every NFL scout as their first choice draft pick, staying in school? It’s huge.

There is a surge of chatter, pleased sounds across the room. Oliver thinks there might even be some applause from certain corners. Coach, who had been as tickled as anyone when their request for another year of eligibility at the college level for Oliver had been granted, gives him a smile. It’s one that from a distance looks struck with his own dumb luck but from where Oliver sits, by his side and with years of knowing him, carries a strain around his eyes that urges Oliver on.

As the noise settles, Oliver does too. He smooths his papers against the table with his palm, finding he doesn’t really need them anymore.

“You know, people say that football is life. But the truth is, as someone once reminded me recently, this is always going to end.” He looks to the main camera, the red light blinking and broadcasting, hoping that Elio catches his use of those stolen and slightly muddled words. “It could have ended that Monday night in Indianapolis. It could end next season with another bad hit to the head. It could end in 15 years, after a couple of Super Bowl rings and the Pro-Bowl.”

 _Or it could end today_ , he thinks. _With what I’m about to say._ But he keeps that to himself.

“Regardless of the when, someday, football will end for me. That’s for certain. But the man I am and the life I want to lead will continue on, hopefully for many years, even after my career as quarterback doesn’t.”

The world seems to slow around him. There is peace in veins.

“Ever since I was 14 years old, I’ve known two things about myself.”

The words are easily enunciated, laced with the final euphoria of truth.

“I knew I wanted to play football at the highest levels of college and pro ball and that I’m gay.”

The silence that follows is, as they say, deafening. And deeply profound.

“Good, you are still listening then.” He laughs softly, but no one else does.

He thinks of telling Des. His parents. Chiara. His teammates. Each one had been an intimate, measured affair. A poor prelude to exposing himself to the world.

“I’m gay and I’m going to say that again because I’ve spent so much of my life trying to hide a fact I’ve know about myself for years from everyone around me that I can count the number of times I’ve said those words out loud on my hands. I come here today with the full support of my parents, my Coaches, my teammates, including these guys,” he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Who are more like brothers than friends.  And a guy who once we made a connection, well...let’s just say the universe seemed pretty determined to make sure we didn’t forget that.”

He blushes, a vision of Elio tapping out a memorized pattern, written by some of European master, against his sternum, his right hand fingers arched just so as he falls asleep flashing through his mind.

“I realize how lucky that makes me. Not everyone in my shoes gets the kind of support I have. Which is why in addition to all my thanks, I feel like I owe some apologies as well. Firstly, to my ex-girlfriend, Chiara, who was only ever a solid partner to me. I feel lucky that my coming out has allowed us to turn a corner in our relationship and become even better friends than we were before. I want to apologize to the Northwestern Football family, who are maybe feeling blindsided by my announcement today. But I hope this act will allow for discussions and open talk and the chance to find middle ground. But mostly,” Oliver steadies himself with a breath. This part, he knows, will get to him the most. “I want to apologize to you out there, who see yourself in me.  I apologize to all the other Oliver Sugarman’s who are dealing with the same struggle I did for so long, unable to justify their sexuality with the sport they love.  Who feel they hide who they are from the world because they haven’t had anyone show them that they _can_ be both before now. I’m sorry because I should have done this sooner. For your sake and for mine.” 

He pinches at his nose, his throat thick with tears that he hasn’t allowed to become visible. Des’s fingers fall tight on his shoulder and Coach taps his arm, kindly. These gestures of support do little to help maintain his composure. Oliver sighs, the breath amplified by the microphone and closes his eyes.

He feels raw and exposed, but he can sense the heightened emotional state of the room, each person present is listening, fully committed to the vulnerable honestly of what Oliver is doing.

Behind his lids, tears sting at his eyes but when he opens them again, Oliver cannot help but smile.

“Some of you out there listening or watching might be pitying me right now. Thinking that I’m some delinquent and that I’ve just thrown it all away. But the truth, this is the most liberating day of my life. Because what happens next is entirely out of my hands. It’s all up to you now.”

He turns his attention to the press in the room.

“It up to you and how you spin this. Am I brave or am I reckless? Am I a trailblazer for future generations or am I just an idiot for not keeping quiet? It’s up to the team owners, the coaches, the players and the fans of the NFL and how much you’ll let a small minority dictate how you run your team.  And I get it, I might be a hard sell to certain markets. I fully know there are plenty of people who are never going to be ok with who I am. But if you’re sitting there, disgusted by a all this let me ask you...what does this change? How does my being gay change one award? One win? One play? One pass? I’ll tell you,” he says. All those present hang on his words. He leans forward, his voice barely a whisper. “It doesn’t.”

He’s gone off script, exhilarated by the command he feels over the room. It’s like when the whole stadium goes quiet around him as a long throw sails down field, waiting to connect with the receiver. Eventually, he’s got to let go. He’s certainly done that now.

Bringing himself back down to reality, he speaks once more into the mic, before pushing himself away from the table. “I’ll leave all questions to my agent.”

*  
**_Words can’t explain how proud I am to call my man @sugarmansugarrush my brother and teammate. And to all the haters, it’s 2019. Get the fuck over it. #loveislove ✔@DessyDesStan97_**

“Nice tweet, Des. Very classy,” Elio says with familiar droll tones.

“Well, it’s true. You heard him. Our man was a rock star out there today.”

The mood in the lounge could not be more different than before after the press conference. It’s lighthearted, full of pride and relief. Everyone has their phones out, scanning articles and video responses from various news outlets, re-watching clips as they get tweeted. It’s like the headquarters of some political candidate on election night, scanning the news to see how it is all being received.

Having been that focused for that long, along with the emotional magnitude of what he’s just done, has compounded the residual effects of Oliver's concussion. He’s completely exhausted and bit out of it, too.  He'd taken refuge in the first soft chair available to him, set aside from all the excitement in the corner.

“But why am I shaking now that it’s over?” He asks no one in particular looking down at how his broad hands quiver uncontrollably.

“It’s just the adrenaline,” Mr. Perlman answers, sweetly. He hands Oliver a cup of coffee, a round smile on his face. “Don’t worry, it’s decaf,” he says with a wink.

He father appears next to Elio's.  “We’ll get something stronger in you later. I’ve got reservations at our usual place downtown.”

“I don’t know, dad.” Oliver can already feel the trepidation of a public outing. “Going out? Today? I just…”

His father’s crouches down so they are at eye level, one hand on Oliver’s knee, the other cupping the back of his head.  Their eyes lock. It reminds him of when he was little, on the sideline after a tough loss or when his grades had slipped or when one of his friends had hurt his feelings.  It’s already one of those tough love dad moments before he even speaks.

“The hardest part is over. You’ve proved your mettle and then some today. You don’t hide yourself from the world now, Oliver. Not what after what you just did. Ok?”

“Ok,” Oliver says meekly and his father stands. He places his hands in his pockets, looking very pleased by his bit of parenting, as he turns towards Mr. Perlman.

“You and your lady friend, Jeanette was it? You’ll join us for dinner, of course?”

Mr. P smiles at his father, which should feel totally surreal but it doesn’t. “Delighted,” he says and the two men walk off together.

“Holy shit!’ Marzia exclaims with glee, then covers her expletive tainted lips with her hand. “Sorry, it’s just. Oliver Sugarman is trending number one nationwide. And there’s this other one,” she taps at her phone. “Hashtag westillwant24. They look like football fan accounts. No, wait,” she looks closer at the screen. “Wait, this one has one of those official twitter checks. They’re players saying that, too.”

“Of course they are,” his agent says with the air of one who knew too well exactly what would happen. Oliver doesn’t know how much his parents are paying to keep him on retainer but he’s proven himself worth every penny. Just then his, agent pulls a ringing phone out of his pocket, clearly pleased as he examines the number. He flashes the phone to the room as it continues to ring. “And this would be Nike.”

“What?” Oliver gasps. He’s not the only one in the room.

“You didn’t think you’d get these kind of calls?”

“I can’t even be sponsored if I’m still in school.”

His agent lifts the phone to his ear, a slick smirk pressed in Oliver’s direction. “Oh. They’ll wait.” He goes out into the hallway, greeting whomever is on the other end with a let’s down to business tone.

“Ellen’s just made a post about you. It’s...It’s very sweet,” his mother says, tears in here eyes.

"And Colin Kaepernick, too," Des adds.

It’s all happening more quickly than he’d expected. But then in this day and age of digital globalization of course news like his would travel fast. He reaches into his pocket for his own phone, wanting to see it all for himself when, as if materializing out of nothing, Elio is next to him, his fingers delicate but halting on his wrist.

“Don’t,” he cautions, offering an apologetic look to Oliver’s indignant one. “Not everything’s that good.”

“I knew it wouldn’t be.” Oliver clicks on his phone, determined. He get only a second’s glance at his home screen to see it lambasted with notifications, before Elio has his hand around his wrist again, firmer this time.

“I know you’re not always keen on letting me try to protect you, but just let us be your filter. Just for while longer. Please?”

With another wave of weariness, and the realization that he doesn’t need to get himself worked up again today, Oliver relents, slumping farther down into the cushions of the chair.

It’s impossible for Oliver not to notice how the people gathered in this room today are the perfect cross section of his and Elio’s lives. The flautist talking to the running back. The lawyer talking to the classicist. The mother talking to the coach.

If this is what their future holds, then it will be a beautiful one.

And there by his side, with his shoulder pressed steadily against his, knowing that his silence is all that Oliver needs right now, is Elio. Oliver eyes him in profile: his strong jawline, the elegant arch of his nose, the curve of his dark brows. He knows that face with unprecedented intimacy and yet, its beauty continues to catch him off guard. Had this been what it was like for those Trojan soldiers of old who upon a single glimpse of their stolen princess's face had been inspired to dare? To fight? Had Elio's face on a hook-up app one night in Italy instilled in him the same kind of bravery? Launched Oliver on this incredible journey of love? Love for each other, obviously, but even more so, for himself.

Today, Oliver had given that boy who'd come out so boldly in the mirror all those years ago permission to live out in the open. He'd given the young man who'd tried to fit himself into a fabricated life the chance live an honest one instead.  And Elio will be both his inspiration and his perpetual reward.

Elio catches him looking, so he links Elio’s fingers with his, reminded of the night at the bar on top of Chicago where this very same touch had felt outlawed and scandalous. Today though, Oliver thinks he’d like to walk out of this building holding Elio’s hand, just like this.

“You did it,” Elio says, those honeyed eyes matching the warmth in his voice.

“World hasn’t ended yet.”

In fact, Oliver is pretty sure his world is just beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few college sports notes:  
> Colin Kaepernick - he's a NFL football player who got in serious trouble for starting the whole taking a knee during the national anthem in support of Black Lives Matter. He's not currently working at the QB even though he's VERY good because people in the real world are dicks. He has however, become the face of Nike so I figure they'd probably want Oliver there too, right?
> 
> NCAA - National Collegiate Athletic Association. They handle rules and regulations, monitor coaches, hold tournaments etc.
> 
> Red-shirt - A player can "red-shirt" for a year to help extend their eligibility to play. So for example, if there is a kid who comes to play quarter back at a school, but their team already has a really good QB, that player may ask the NCAA to "red-shirt" for their freshman year, so that they can play more once the other QB has graduated or gone pro. You're only ever allowed 5 years to play in college. Oliver gets a "Medical red-shirt" which means he's being offered an additional year of eligibility because of his injury. Would this happen in reality?? Nah, he'd probably just declare for the draft tbh and let his pro team help with his rehabilitation but I want him at NU for another year. For reasons. Which is Elio. So...my sandbox my rules. ;)


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver return to Italy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the end for copious thanks yous and notes about what the future holds! (Or at least, what I hope it holds!)

_**Saturday, June 22, 2024**_  
_**B., Italy**_  
  
The scar on his knee is smooth now, flesh toned and shiny. Running the entire side of his left knee, it becomes more obvious in the summer when the rest of Oliver’s skin darkens to a golden tan while that bit of reconnected skin, long since healed over, remains pale. Oliver can still remember though when the scar was new, little more than grotesque flaps of skin stitched together with thick medical grade thread, leaving behind a wound that was purple and raised, tender and unsteady.  
  
He’d spent hours with physical therapists that first spring. While Elio finished his junior year of college, Oliver had rehabilitated. It had come as a welcome distraction from the phenomenon his coming out had created in the world. Hours in the gym were something familiar to focus on resulting in steady goals and steady progress.  
  
He can still remember the insecurity he’d felt the first time they’d asked him to jump. To run. To cut left. To put all his weight into it and throw. He hadn’t trusted that knee for a long time.  
  
But he rarely thinks of his knee now, certainly not during games. Much like his ankle sprain from sophomore year, it is just one on a list of injuries he's suffered, though certainly the most memorable. He’ll give his ruptured ACL and the events that surrounded it a passing thought when he gets suited up before a game, strapping on the supportive knee brace that makes him feel like the bionic man. Or on days like today that are definitive milestones in his life, days that leave him filled with gratitude for every bend and unexpected weave in his journey.  
  
The fine linen of his custom suit flirts cool against the skin of his legs he pulls his pants on over his waist. He tucks in his shirt, gives the pants a zip then puts on the coat made of matching, near weightless fabric as the pants.  
  
With a quick assessment of the contents of his pockets and one last check of his hair Oliver heads out through the wide double doors into the garden just beyond the patio off the master bedroom. They couldn’t have ordered a more picture perfect day and he tilts his head skyward in thanks.  
  
They’d come to Italy together that first summer. He can’t remember whose idea it had been, but it was clear by the end of the semester just how much they both needed an escape so Italy had seemed like the perfect answer. Elio had been elated to show Oliver this remote stretch of coastline where he’d passed so many formative summers.  
  
No one in the nearby tiny village had cared who Oliver was or knew what exactly had made him famous. (It’s much like they don’t seem to care about what Elio and _il ragazzo Americano_ gets up to with the local boy at the villa upon the hill now, watching as they come and go through the seasons with little more than idle speculation over their evening negroni as he and Elio stroll through the piazzetta. _“E un muvi star, no?”_ When that happens, Elio will give him an impish look, slip his arm through Oliver’s and whisper in his ear, “They’re talking about me, obviously.”)  
  
There had been interviews out the eyeballs, of course. Covers of Out Magazine and People and Sports Illustrated and even Rolling Stone. He’d hated the attention even as much as he’d embraced it, knowing that every public appearance brought more visibility to his story, and he’d hoped, the chance for more acceptance.  
  
But Italy had given Oliver the much needed time adjust to his brave new world with a veil of anonymity. Sequestered away under Mr. Perlman’s effortless hospitality, he’d swam in the ocean, worked on his much neglected thesis for hours in the sun by the pool as Elio composed at the table nearby. It had been blissfully normal. Almost heaven and a welcome reprieve to the pandemonium.  
  
But now Italy, and this place in particular, offers Oliver a real sense of home. When it had become obvious that Mr. P preferred to spend his breaks and summers back in Illinois with Dr. Ellison (which was almost immediately as Dr. Ellison became Dr. Ellison-Perlman within the year) and it got harder and harder for him to keep up with the old sprawling estate halfway across the world, Oliver had been lucky enough to be in a place to buy it from him.  
  
The Perlman villa in B. is theirs now. His and Elio’s.  
  
Even though they’re lucky if they can spend a little more than a month here all year, he’ll never stop wishing it could be more. His first summer in B. had been as transformative for him as it is sentimental for Elio. And who knows, retirement comes early to those in his line of work. Maybe one day it can be more permanent.  
  
He walks down the loose stone path through an arbor. The peach trees are mid transition from blossom to fruit during this time of year and they provide a welcome shade to the sun. Elio’s old friend Anchise had only been around that first year before he passed away. But Oliver had spent hours with him that summer, learning about the history of the trees and how best to take care of them. It had been as if Anchise already knew that one day they would belong to him. And Elio had been right; he had been a lovely man.  
  
Oliver comes out to a lower terrace, closed in by a low stone wall with views of the sea, and finds it busy with activity. He checks his watch. 20 minutes.  
  
Caterers have set up rustic tables in the well-manicured grass and are laden with local salume and cheeses, fruit and bread, and shellfish caught fresh from the waves below. They’ve set out bottles of wine and liquor for the cocktail hour enough for a party twice this size. But then again, many of the guests are Italian and it will probably be needed. There is jazz combo, former high school classmates of Elio’s from Milan, set up under a laurel tree. A few guests who have arrived early take pictures of themselves against the seascape vista or wander, praising the flora. It’ll be an intimate affair and total surprise for the man of honor, but even so he’s had little to do with the planning, leaving it to the professionals.  
  
He’d rejoined his team for pre-season training in August of that year, just like the year before. Coach and the student body of NU had been nothing but supportive all along. He’d taken a few snaps in the home opener when the team was already up by a dozen and the game clock was nearly ticked down to zero. When his first pass had connected with Des’s replacement, a phenom out of Florida, nearly 20 yards down field, everyone at Ryan Field had erupted with cheers louder than he’s ever heard in his life, before or since.  
  
Coach had eased him back into play, giving him more and more time each game, until he’d been allowed to start about midway through the season when his concussion protocol had finally cleared. He’d gotten the team back to the 2020 BSC Championship game in sunny Phoenix and this time Oliver remembers the on field celebration. Purple and white confetti had fallen so thick across the field, it had stopped looking green.  
  
As the designated time arrives, indicated by the toll of the church bells echoing in the evening far off in the center of town, Oliver feels his phone vibrate in his pocket with a text from Elio.  
  
_Eagle has landed._  
  
Using his most impressive play-calling voice, Oliver lines up all the guests in quick order. They wait under the canopy of fairy lights, encouraging them to stay as quiet as possible. It’s a charming hodgepodge of faces, friends and family from a long and successful life.  
  
When the 2020 Draft came, his agent had been confident the entire way that he’d go in the Top 10, if not the top 5. However, Elio ever the pragmatist had suggested they watch from home instead of traveling to New York just avoid any unwanted drama in case things didn’t go Oliver’s way. He’d ended up going #6, to Miami.  It had been an excellent fit.  He’d ended his rookie season with a losing record but with the highest number of new season ticket holders the team had ever seen.  
  
The next season, they’d made the playoffs.  
  
He's still the only out professional football player. Though he did get one anonymous letter from a current NFL player who said in his letter that he wished he had Oliver’s grit and bravery. His single act hasn’t change the culture of professional sports. He still arrives at each game with body guards dressed as coaching staff that stay near him on the sidelines for the duration of the game. He's heard every slur, every bigoted cuss thrown his way by opposing team’s fans, and sometimes even the players themselves.  
  
But just like before he had come out, Oliver lets his abilities on the field speak for themselves. Call him what you want, he’s still going to pick apart your defense and get the ball in the end zone.  
  
To date, two current Major League Baseball, one National Hockey League, two National Basketball League and five Major League Soccer players have come out as gay or bi, not including the retired players or the female athletes who all used the same hashtag: _iamolivertoo_ to tell their stores. It’s not been a sea change, but immense progress nonetheless.  
  
But more importantly than the visibility at the professional level, it has been the kids. Those very same boys that Oliver had addressed directly, high school and college age athletes who he wanted to embolden to live in a way he hadn’t allowed himself. Again, it’s not been hundreds. But every single kid who has decided to come out and continue to play ball instead of living a lie has felt like vindication.

Now, nearly 5 years later, Oliver still checks that tag on Twitter and Instagram daily, just in case there’s one more.  
  
He hears Mr. P’s voice before he sees him.  
  
“My god, it’s been years, Eli. Oh, but it’s hardly changed at all...and you’ve done so nicely to keep things up. That old shed always needed a fresh coat of paint.  Oh, there’s that view...”  
  
Oliver smiles down towards the two glasses of prosecco he holds in his hands. He can almost see Sam, his arms spread wide, a beaming smile under his salt and pepper beard directed out towards the ocean.  
  
“Come on, dad.” Elio has that edge to his voice, where he’s trying very hard to be patient and is only on this side of failing. “We’ve done some work to the path down to the rocks. I want to show you before we lose the sun.”  
  
Oliver catches the look of utter shock on Mr. P’s just as everyone shouts, “Surprise!”  
  
“Happy retirement, Papa,” Elio says sweetly his face tucked down against his father’s temple.  
  
The classics community had been a stunned when Samuel had announced his retirement at the end of this past school year. At the age of 62, it was on the younger side for an academic to step down, especially one of his clout. “But I have so much more work to do!” he’d said. Freed from the constraints of an academic calendar, Professor Perlman will spend the rest of his career traveling the world, researching, writing, publishing texts Oliver know will be used for generations. He’ll be brilliant.  
  
This whole surprise retirement party had been Elio’s idea. He’d coordinated everything with Jeanette and her two teenaged kids from the tickets to the pretend destination of a small village just over the border in the Swiss Alps, to the long car drive down the other side of the mountains this morning. Oliver watches as Elio walks over, the smug look of success on his face.  
  
Elio takes Oliver’s extra glass of prosecco, pulling a long drink. He smacks his lips, sighing. “He knew we were coming here the second we got in the car and turned south. Still,” he looks around at his father, in his element and elated. “I think this was better than what he was expecting.”  
  
They toast gently, the fine glass work making a pretty noise in the young summer night.  
  
He’s wearing a similarly designed suit to Oliver’s. His is a darker shade and tailored a bit more trimly in the jacket and the legs to show off his ridiculously boyish figure, even though he’s closer to 30 than 18.

Oliver would still choose him out of the whole world.

  
“What?” Elio asks, catching Oliver’s perusing eye.  
  
“Nothing. It’s just kind of bull shit how good you look for someone who’s just spent 5 hours in the car, that’s all. You look incredibly handsome, Mr. Perlman.” His formal word choice makes him blush. The redness across his cheeks only deepens as Elio fingers the lapel of his coat and leans in.  
  
“You look very handsome too, Mr. Sugarman. I missed you.”  
  
It’s been two weeks. While Oliver came here and got things ready, Elio had remained to subterfuge back stateside. Kissing him feels like the sweetest relief. Party guests be damned, he’s not going to hold back. He slips his hand inside the folds of Elio’s suit and pulls Elio in by the waist. The fabric of his fine shirt is slightly damp. Oliver imagines the way it’s been pressed against the back of a car seat, and finds he likes his man a bit sweaty.  
  
Elio balances his bubbly expertly and lets their bodies align. “Careful,” he mutters, having created just enough space for his lips to do something other than kiss. “Wouldn't want the paps catching us _en flagrante_.”  
  
They’re safe here from prying eyes (another reason Oliver loves it so) but it’s not something they’ve wholly unfamiliar with.  
  
“Mmmm, we haven’t been caught strolling hand in hand on the streets of New York in far too long, have we?”  
  
It had been pretty obvious by about March that Elio was the mystery man of fate Oliver had spoken of in his press conference the month before. The student body at NU let them well enough alone, but more than once Elio had been followed by those very same paparazzi they joked about now as he returned to Oliver’s apartment and it had left him completely unnerved. While Elio had known it would come, he’d confessed at the time, he just thought they’d have had more time before it caught up with them.  
  
“We were so good at being sneaky about it before.”  
  
“That’s because I had someone who was broadcasting the contents of my love life to the masses before.”  
  
Oliver’s comment, however idle, had given them a brilliant idea.  
  
Chiara had posted the picture from Oliver’s hospital bed to her Instagram, tagging them both.  
  
“Anything in particular you’d like me to say?” She’d asked, her belly still hide-able under her sweatshirt and an engagement glittering, brand new, on her left hand.  
  
_So excited to dance with both these gorgeous boys at my_  
_wedding in June!! (and have one of them as a bridesman!)_  
_If I’ve learned anything in the last year, it’s that love comes into_  
_your life in a thousand different ways and looks different every time._  
_And it is not man's place to regulate it. To force degrees  or condemn it._  
_Because God is always there love when shared honestly and openly between two sous.                                                                                                                                                            And it_ _always beautiful and always to meant to be celebrated. #loveyoulads_  
  
Oliver had needed tissues after reading it.  
  
The key Oliver had given Elio had turned into a lease the following year. Elio had never bothered moving out. Just stayed and started bringing boxes.  
  
So it was Oliver who had pulled the letter from their mailbox one fall afternoon during their joint senior year. It was in French, hand written with European lettering on the envelope.  
  
“More students have come forward,” Elio had said, holding the paper so loosely in his hands that it had trembled. “The _Conservatoire_ is putting together a lawsuit against him. They want me to come back and testify.”  
  
Elio had finally gotten his day in court where he'd been able to point out all the ways his professor's behavior had been inappropriate and cruel to his impressionable mind. Afterwards, he gets his apology from the school, saying that even with Elio’s fabrication after the fact, they should never have cowed to the professor’s pressure and dismissed him. They even offer him a place in their graduate program, as recompense Oliver supposes, but in the end Elio chooses to go to New York City for grad school instead. The Manhattan School of Music, though he’d had his pick.  
  
They fight about little things. (“Did you really have to check your phone about 8 million times during the movie? There were subtitles, if you were really so desperate for something to read.”)  
  
And big things. Like money. Because after Oliver got traded to the New England Patriots after his 3rd year in Miami and his Nike contract had been renewed, he’d had more money than God. Certainly more money than any 25 year old should ever have. He’d assumed buying them a massive loft in Midtown Manhattan that they could share would be a good thing. He also thought telling Elio that he didn’t need to stress about scrambling for every gig, “Cause we can still have a very, very, _very_ comfortable life if you never worked another day if your life.”  
  
But Elio had gone ballistic.  
  
“Look, if you'd wanted some kept boy, whose only purpose in life was to follow to around and keep a pretty home for you to come back to so they can fawn all over your wins, you really should have just fucking stayed with Chiara.”  
  
They hadn’t spoken for nearly two weeks. And Oliver had worried that this could have been it for them. Their eventual ending that Elio had prophesied that night on the field in Evanston.  
  
Oliver could barely stomach the thought.  
  
So instead of letting the silence stretch on due to their ridiculous egos, he’d flown home on a chartered flight to JFK right after their game in Green Bay.  
  
They trip over their own apologies.  
  
“I didn’t even mean…”  
  
“How could you think I don’t…”  
  
“I was so scared,” Elio had said as Oliver spooned him against his naked chest that night, the sounds of their quiet street setting the perfect backdrop for atonement. “I thought I’d lost you.”  
  
“Never.”  
  
“Don’t make promises, Oliver. Our lives are crazy and we're still young and...”  
  
Oliver had shut him up with a kiss that could have rattled bones. No more prevarication.

It had been that night, that moment, where Oliver had realized: he wants to make promises to Elio, publicly and legally, and he'd started making plans.  
  
  
Elio still lives in that place now and Oliver crashes through when he can. Elio writes and plays for a contemporary music ensemble based out of Lincoln Center. Their CD had been up for Best Classical Grammy in 2023.  
  
He tours and Oliver’s on the road which is why the off season (which luckily aligns for both of them) is so crucial for them for their continued happiness. New York in springtime, weekends back in Massachusetts with his folks, these weeks in Italy.  
  
The jazz combo takes a break and the sun begins to sink into the horizon.  
  
Elio had known he’d wanted this to be the type of event where history is honored and by gone’s are by gone’s, and Jeanette had graciously agreed. Which is why Oliver has finally gotten to meet Annella, Elio's vibrant and beautiful mother tonight. She's single now, and the better for it, Elio says, and she brings out a more refined, European side to Elio. He holds his head taller when he’s beside her, speaks more slowly.  
  
Or perhaps it’s just that they’re both growing up.  
  
He hears a familiar giggle off in the distance.  
  
_Or perhaps not._  
  
Elio, having disappeared from the party for a length of time, reappears from the main house with Jeanette’s son Zach marching proudly in front of him, a white hand rolled cigarette in his lips. As the boy walks past Oliver, the smell that comes from the lit tip is most certainly not tobacco.

Oliver gives his partner a knowing look.  
  
“Did you just teach your brother how to roll a joint?”  
  
“Step-brother,” Elio corrects crisply. “And yes. He's 15. It’s time someone taught him how. When I was his age I was smoking weed out of hollowed out apples in desperation. Besides it's not like it's illegal anymore anyway.”  
  
“I’m _pretty_ sure it’s still illegal in Italy,” Oliver says, not like he really cares.  
  
“Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure we’re still illegal in Italy too, but that doesn’t stop us does it?” Elio grabs his chin and kisses him. All Oliver tastes is red wine and him.  
  
“Funny you should say it like that,” Oliver says, with an awkward shuffle of his feet. Elio looks at him quizzically and Oliver shakes off the question. _It’s not quite time yet._  
  
Even though they are surrounded by friends and family, they get enough of the spotlight these days. The Met Gala and ESPYS and benefits galore. He hasn't told Elio but he's been approached by a screenwriter.  Oliver is happy in a way now he didn't know was possible. Happy and stable. He knows he's one hit away from his career being over but his life only just getting started, whether there is football in it or no.  
  
Which is why as the reception winds down, Oliver will ask Elio to join him for a little stroll down to the rocks, just the two of them.  
  
It’s their favorite place on the property, private and serene and he knows Elio will welcome the break. It’s the same place he and Elio had spent countless nights their first summer, escaping there in the dark just for a bit of privacy. The place Elio had told Oliver he'd had his first kiss at the age of 13. The same rock where the last time they’d been there earlier in the spring, Elio had leaned into him after they’d slipped their hands down the front of each other's swim trunks and gasped into the moonlight and asked, “You ever think about adopting?”  
  
Once the stars are out and the night is theirs, he'll lead Elio's down to that sacred space, take Elio's hand in his, drop to that mended knee and pull the ring he's had for months and has just been waiting for the right time out of his back pocket and ask Elio to marry him.  
  
Sickness and health. Plenty and want.  
  
Whatever comes to pass.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, is it normal to start crying when you open AO3?
> 
> So a few things about this chapter:  
> When I first thought of this story, I knew the ending would be back in Italy. I actually had the image of Oliver rubbing his healing knee in the pool at the Perlman Villa, Elio helping him recuperate. Obviously, things changed but so happy to have brought them to B. again. And again.
> 
> I let myself lean into cannon a bit more than usual. I guess I got sentimental bringing them back there too.
> 
> Part of what I was going for with this story was that everything was "right" for Oliver. He was going to win all the things. Have parents who weren't ass holes. Have his girlfriend be the one to break up with him. Have his best friend be totally fine with him being gay. Even when he got injured, it was bad but not bad enough to end his career. I wanted to create this perfect storm of well, perfection, around Oliver and YET, still have him afraid to embrace his true self in a public way.
> 
> Is this unrealistic? Maybe? But that's why this is fiction. It's romance. It's fluffy (and angsty too). It's an escape. And I'm ok with that. But also maybe, this is what SHOULD be allowed to happen to men like Oliver. Maybe we need fiction to lead the way of reality, these days. Cause reality sure bites.
> 
> Onto my thanks:
> 
> First and most importantly - I have to thank you all, the fabulous, dedicated, art-making, comment leaving, kudos giving, cheer leading, patient readers. Honestly. This fic would not be what it is with out all of you behind it. You pushed me to make it "more". To never give up.
> 
> I never thought this would be a fic very few people would find interesting. Football and CMBYN? Is this crack?? So the fact so many people have joined in the process has been more rewarding than I can possibly explain.
> 
> Second - there is a group of amazing women who held me up when I was unsure, guided me when I was losing my way and are basically all around the best. To the women of The Blanket Fort (my babes xo). Ashley, Chancellor and Back. You guys are awesome. xx
> 
> Also, writing this fic and it getting the reaction it did, made me feel brave enough to start talking to people in real life about my writing. It's not something I do anymore in secret. There are many trusted friends now who know that I write. That I've written this story in particular. Each one has been incredibly supportive. So I guess, my writing PP emboldened me to live openly as a writer, the way Oliver finally felt free enough after meeting Elio.
> 
> I have plans, people. HOPES. Goals. I want to get Pocket Pass published. (And maybe even turned into a screenplay. Both sounds good right??)
> 
> So, if you'd like to follow along with me on my journey as I scrub Pocket and explore all my options for getting it published, come join me on tumblr at: ingrid-sterling (That's my pen name!) for updates and posts. I'll share the boys scrubbed names soon!

**Author's Note:**

> I promise not to talk too much football, though I am a huge college football fan. 
> 
> Title is a play on words: a QB stands in the "pocket" (a protective line created by his offensive linemen) to throw a "pass". Also, Grindr is a way in your "pocket" to make a "pass" on guys. I tried. :)
> 
> This is my first AU. It's going to be fun (I hope!), a little angsty but full of fluffy fluff by the end!
> 
> This is a WIP. Will post as regularly as I'm able but patience is a virtue and summer is busy! 
> 
> Please follow over on Tumblr if you don't already! (same name) xo


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